The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  Evie snatched at his fingers. ‘No … tell me.’ She ended on a splutter and a cough.

  ‘Pneumonia,’ said Nathaniel.

  Hearing Charlie’s voice at the door, Mary didn’t look round from the sofa where she was waiting for the meeting to start. Then she heard another voice and she did look round: Eleanor. She turned away again. No doubt Eleanor would behave beautifully and acknowledge her, but she mustn’t appear to hope for that acknowledgement. Instead she became terribly interested in what Ophelia and Angela were talking about. Then she pictured the toe-curling embarrassment of being on the receiving end of Eleanor’s civility in front of everyone else and that brought her to her feet.

  She made her way down the room, not surprised when Charlie broke open the little group that he, Eleanor and Josephine made.

  ‘Mary, there you are. I’d like to introduce you.’

  ‘Don’t be a chump,’ said Eleanor. ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘Of course! The annual jolly. Stupid of me.’

  Eleanor turned to Mary with a smile. She was such a pretty girl – more than pretty – beautiful, with eyes the colour of forget-me-nots. The fitted bodice and narrow skirt of her pale-green princess-line dress showed her dainty figure. Her narrow-brimmed hat with its tiny fabric flowers was engagingly simple.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you again,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘I hope you enjoy the meeting.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure I will. The best families have a tradition of service to the community, but there’s more to it these days than broth for the sick and good conduct medals for the orphans.’

  Questions rose inside Mary. How do you see your role? Do you think the charity committees will change? But she didn’t ask – couldn’t. Polite as Eleanor was, she was also cool, as befitted their relationship. This was how rich and poor relations should address one another. Yet how disappointing it was, compared to Charlie’s affability.

  When Angela came to welcome Eleanor, Mary slipped into the kitchen, but when she emerged with a tray, she was relieved to have it spirited out of her hands by Ophelia. Now she wouldn’t have to walk down the room looking like a servant – or was she being oversensitive? Meeting Charlie seemed to have changed the rules.

  She was careful to sit away from both Kimbers, though she felt a twinge of annoyance. Was their presence going to spoil her enjoyment?

  At the end, while people chatted before leaving, the mention of a clinic caught her attention and she realised Katharine and Eleanor were talking about – not just any clinic, but the clinic.

  ‘Yes, I know where you mean,’ said Eleanor. ‘My mother chairs the Deserving Poor Committee, which has decided to back it. Mummy is keen on education and one of the things the clinic will do is hold classes.’

  ‘That’s the clinic my uncle’s friend is interested in, isn’t it?’ Katharine asked Mary.

  ‘Yes.’ She felt fluttery. ‘Lady Kimber is backing the project?’ Doctor Brewer had mentioned Her Ladyship. Now she knew why. ‘So the clinic is … viable?’

  ‘What a strange question. Of course it is. My mother wouldn’t waste committee funds on a project that wasn’t worthwhile.’

  As people started to leave, Charlie made a point of saying goodbye to her, but he didn’t offer to walk her home. Watching him depart with Eleanor, she forced herself not to hang her head in humiliation. Was it her own fault? Had Charlie’s affability made her lose sight of her place as poor relation?

  Chapter Ten

  Pain burst inside Helen Rawley’s hip. Her breath caught in a sharp hiss, but she didn’t flinch. She froze, letting her heart settle, but that was the only concession she permitted before trying again. This time she got to her feet.

  ‘Bally rheumatics,’ she said. It was part of the daily ritual of getting her stiff, old body moving. When she was a girl, her grandfather had kept a parrot. Every morning, when the shawl was lifted from its cage, it would declare in a fractious voice, ‘Bally short night.’ Every time Helen said ‘Bally rheumatics’, she remembered that parrot.

  That was her now, a game old bird. At least, she hoped she was game. She would need to be with Greg in charge. Her eyes prickled. This was the second time she had been left to an unwilling male relative. It was humiliating.

  Robert had called her a chattel. ‘The old man left me all his goods and chattels, including Helen here.’ He would wave the stem of his pipe in her direction, inviting his dinner companions to enjoy the joke, but beneath the chuckle lay something more, a suggestion of pleasure and power.

  Now she had been left to Greg. Robert knew she and Greg had fallen out badly, though he hadn’t known why. But it hadn’t stopped him linking them inexorably.

  ‘It’s right and appropriate,’ she imagined him saying. ‘Now get on with it.’

  Or, losing patience, he might have said, ‘If you’d troubled to make yourself agreeable when you were young, you’d have a family of your own to take responsibility for you; but you didn’t, so you haven’t.’

  There had been a touch of malice about Robert. But there was probably a touch of malice about her too, so she shouldn’t complain.

  She washed and began to dress. She was rising earlier these days to compensate for the extra time she needed now her hip had worsened. She could have ordered breakfast to be put back, but that would have constituted giving in, and she would never do that.

  Her day-dress was hanging ready, another of those old black creations Edith had dug out of the attic. But what she wore on top didn’t signify, as long as it was tidy and starched. Her undergarments were a different matter. It was her one indulgence, known only to herself and the washerwoman.

  Lace whispered against her faded skin as she drew on a chemise of the finest nainsook. The corset’s back-laces were already adjusted, so she had only to fasten the pearl buttons up the front, while the ruched ribbon decorating the suspenders brushed her withered thighs. Then came the stockings, pure silk with a flower embroidered on the ankle, and with them a new concern that had clouded her morning ritual for weeks. Her dashed hip was getting worse and bending down hurt like the devil. Was the time coming when she would need help to dress? The indignity! And her elegant underwear would no longer be her precious secret. Would she be forced to face up to what a silly old fool she was?

  At the top of the stairs she paused to gird herself for the descent, but today she was able to walk down normally. Sometimes her hip obliged her to descend one step at a time, like a small child.

  ‘Good morning, Edith. Has the post arrived?’

  ‘Yes, madam. It’s beside your plate.’

  ‘Perhaps there’ll be one from Mr Rawley.’ Greg had gone swanning off without a word. Not that she wanted him back, but not knowing was unsettling.

  There was one letter, a condolence message from someone she hadn’t seen in years. After breakfast, she penned a reply and took it to the pillar box. Being busy was what kept her going. When she returned home, she donned the floppy old straw hat she kept for the garden and scoured the rose beds for plants in need of dead-heading. It didn’t take long. That was the trouble. Jobs never took long when you kept on top of them the way she did. She took pride in efficiency but, goodness, there were times when it was hard fending off boredom.

  She settled down with the housekeeping book and the weekly bills from the tradesmen. She was quick at arithmetic. Nevertheless, she always did her accounts twice. Had anyone asked, she would have claimed it was her duty to take care with the household money, but really she was spinning out the task to fill time.

  The doorbell rang three times in quick succession.

  ‘How rude!’ she exclaimed, deciding this person didn’t deserve to be shown into her morning room – and that was as far as she got before Greg marched in.

  ‘Aunt Helen, Porter tells me the money has been sorted out. Last year’s interest has been set aside to cover this year’s bills—’

  ‘Greg – wait – you’ve just this moment walked through the door.’
<
br />   ‘Yes, yes, good morning, how are you, all that tosh. Porter tells me any money left at the end of this year will be ploughed back into the capital to swell the coffers.’

  ‘I believe so. There should be ample to swell the coffers, as you so elegantly express it. Robert made wise investments—’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I want you to work out what’s needed to keep the place ticking over for a year. I’ll be back later.’

  And he was gone. Just like that. Her mouth had dropped open – she snapped it shut.

  Edith materialised in the doorway. ‘Well, madam, it fair teks the wind out of your sails.’

  ‘Please prepare Mr Rawley’s room.’

  ‘What should I tell Mrs Burley, madam?’

  ‘That we may be one more at the table or we may not.’

  ‘She won’t like it, madam.’

  ‘No, I don’t imagine she will.’

  Neither did Helen. How dared he behave in such a way?

  That afternoon, Edith appeared, in a terrific flap. ‘There’s a man outside, walking round the house.’

  ‘What sort of man?’

  ‘He’s in a suit, but he doesn’t look like a gentleman. He’s got a notebook and he’s writing in it.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Do you think we should tek the poker in case we need to bash him?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  If only she could put a strong swing in her step. They went round the side of the house and there was the man, looking up at the building. He stepped backwards, still looking, then scribbled something.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘You must be Miss Rawley.’ He jiggled his notebook and pencil into one hand to free the other to raise his hat. ‘How do you do? Name of Stevens.’

  ‘I repeat, what are you doing?’

  ‘Assessing the house, as per instructions. I’ll be indoors presently.’

  ‘You most certainly will not. Leave the premises this instant or I’ll send for a policeman.’

  ‘There’s no call for that—’

  ‘Edith, go to the gate and look for Constable Vincent. He should be passing this way on his beat any minute now.’

  Stevens looked past her. ‘Mr Rawley, thank heaven you’ve come, sir. This lady’s been yelling blue murder.’

  Greg sauntered up. ‘So I heard. No need for reinforcements, Aunt Helen. Stevens is here at my request.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To do as I’ve asked.’

  His expression was genial, but she caught the challenge in his eye. If she said one more word, he would squash her flat. Pressing her lips together, she returned to the house, Edith clucking beside her.

  When Greg appeared, she rounded on him.

  ‘I’ve been mistress of Jackson’s House since before you were born and unless you have a wife I don’t know about, I’m still mistress. What is that man doing?’

  ‘Sizing up the place. He’s a builder.’

  ‘You’re having work done?’

  ‘On the contrary, I want him to make sure that nothing needs doing. Have you got the figures I asked for?’

  ‘What figures?’

  ‘The annual outgoings. Isn’t that the kind of information the mistress of the house has at her fingertips? If Stevens says there’s no need for repairs, I’ll present your figures to Porter and get him to hand over as much of this year’s money as you won’t need.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Just get me those accounts. I’m seeing Porter shortly.’

  She complied. Presently, Mr Stevens came inside to continue his inspection. He went into every room. She felt angry and horribly vulnerable.

  When Greg and Mr Stevens had gone, she did something she had never done before. She knocked on the kitchen door and went in. Edith and Mrs Burley turned drawn faces to her and scrambled to their feet.

  ‘Sit down, please. I was hoping for some tea.’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ said Mrs Burley. ‘Edith will bring it through in a minute.’

  ‘Actually, I thought I’d sit here and have it with you – if you don’t mind. I think we could all do with some.’

  There was a silence. She bit the inside of her cheek. Had she offended them?

  Mrs Burley said, ‘Indeed we could. Sit down, madam, dear. Edith and me’ll join you in a jiffy … if you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said.

  Having forced her way in to see Mr Porter by dint of sitting in his clerk’s office and refusing to leave in spite of repeated assurances that he wasn’t available, Helen stopped in the doorway. She had expected a traditional office in keeping with the great man’s dignity. Instead, everything was modern, from the clean lines of the art nouveau chairs to the blue tiles in the fireplace surround and the electric light hanging from the ceiling. Standing on the desk was the house telephone and on a table by the window was a gramophone.

  He caught her looking. ‘I play music when I’m working, though not, of course, when clients are present. Please be seated. Regarding your visit, I must respectfully insist that you request an appointment in future.’

  ‘And make me wait a week, I suppose? What if my query is urgent?’

  ‘Is it urgent today?’

  ‘First my nephew tries to get his hands on this year’s excess funds by bringing in that builder chap—’

  ‘I’m aware of that. I’ve explained to Mr Rawley that just because the house doesn’t require repairs, that doesn’t mean he may have the money. If this is the reason for your visit—’

  ‘Kindly let me finish. I’m aware you sent him away with a flea in his ear. Having failed to get money that way, he’s now decided to rent out Jackson’s House and says I must either move out or stay as housekeeper.’

  ‘Mr Rawley has no power to remove you from Jackson’s House.’

  ‘Can he put in tenants?’

  Mr Porter frowned. ‘There’s nothing in the will to prevent it.’

  ‘That’s outrageous. And would I have to be their housekeeper?’

  ‘Miss Rawley, please understand. My job is to carry out your late brother’s instructions. I can provide clarification regarding the terms of the will, but I won’t be drawn into family arguments.’

  ‘Then what’s to happen? My brother made no arrangements concerning this eventuality.’

  ‘But he did. He nominated an intermediary. You should speak to Doctor Brewer.’

  Mary couldn’t tell whether she was more pleased or relieved when she received two letters of acceptance on the same day, one for a Vera’s Voice article, written with Angela and Josephine’s help, about sharing digs with a pal, the other a piece for The Gentlewoman’s World about managing on a limited budget. By the same post, a lively article about the pleasures of the suburbs she had submitted to the Manchester Evening News was returned to her, but with a letter suggesting she try a magazine instead, which provided some consolation.

  ‘I’ll take out all the bits that make it specific to hereabouts and send it to Vera’s Voice,’ she told Ophelia.

  As she topped and tailed her article, the clinic grumbled away at the back of her mind. When she tried to think up fresh ideas for articles, the clinic material crowded her thoughts. It was a good story, even without the controversy Mr Clough had tried to drum up.

  More than anything, she wanted to continue helping her family. Every time she opened her notebook and saw the clinic notes, she felt guilty. She could write a compelling piece, but in all conscience, she couldn’t do so without seeking permission.

  She had already been to see Mr Clough to tell him she couldn’t write the article the way he wanted.

  ‘Why not?’ His jowls quivered.

  ‘I’ve received different information—’

  ‘From Doctor Brewer, I suppose? You’re a fool. I’ll move up in the world and I could have helped you, invited you to report on official functions. Think on that the next time you’re out in the rain, writing up a potato-growing c
ompetition.’

  She expected an equally narky reception from Doctor Brewer, but so be it. Anyhow, it might not come to that. Last time she had approached Doctor Cottrell, having been furnished with his address by Mr Clough. If she went to him again, there might be no need to venture back inside the clinic.

  On Friday evening, she hurried out, but when she reached Doctor Cottrell’s, his landlady said he wasn’t in.

  ‘He’s over at yon clinic. They both are, him and t’other doctor. Hardly sleeping these days, it seems, what with visiting the sick and fettling away at that place.’

  Mary made her way there. To her surprise, a couple of scrawny lads were sanding down a wooden table in the street while an old chap with a bent back and knobbly knuckles painstakingly varnished another table. A man up a ladder painted a window frame and, in a splash of sunshine, a group of women sat in a circle on chairs and upturned boxes, hemming bandages.

  The door stood open. She stepped inside, catching her breath at the change. Gone were the scabby walls and the gut-churning smell. The floor looked solid and secure – the staircase at the far end boasted a complete set of treads. Two men were hanging a door. A boy held on like grim death to a piece of wood lying across a saw-horse, keeping it steady while a man sawed it in two. The air smelt of wood and whitewash. To her right, a hatch had been set into the wall. Peering through, she saw a chair turned upside down and stacked on top of another. A woman scrubbed the shelves of a tall cupboard while another mopped the floor.

  She moved from room to room, phrases and sentences blossoming inside her. A group of men stood back from a chimney breast, looking at it in a way that suggested they had done something remarkable. Among them, shirtsleeves rolled up, collar discarded, face streaked with grime, was Doctor Brewer.

  ‘Thanks, chaps,’ he said. ‘That’s it for today. I’ve put money behind the bar for everyone to have a couple of pints.’

  ‘Cheers, boss,’ and ‘See you tomorrow,’ said the men, jamming their caps on their heads.