A Brighter Tomorrow

by Maggie Ford

  At the door, Ronnie’s hold on her arm tightened. ‘I’ll come in with you, give you support.’

  The words brought her mind back to her quest. She lifted her chin with recaptured resolve. ‘No. I need to do this on my own.’

  Ill or not, there would be a reckoning – she knew that now. All the scheming, planning, the hard work – it mustn’t go to waste. She wanted to see his expression when he saw her, tall and elegant and self-assured.

  She wanted to see his face blench, twist, his eyes unable to meet hers as she gazed steadily down at him with venom in that stare. She’d stay calm as she belittled him, condemned him to eternal remorse, finally to turn from him with dignity, knowing she had accomplished all she’d set out to do. She knew just how to go about it, and now she could hardly wait to carry it out.

  ‘Stay here. I won’t be long,’ she said firmly, Ronnie stepping back.

  Without knocking she turned the handle of the door. Her intention was to walk quietly up to where he sat, to look straight into his amazed face. She would not rant and rave. She would be calm and cold – ice-cold.

  The state of the house should have forewarned her. As she opened the door to the room, the smell made her clap her hand to her mouth and nose yet again. She felt herself quail.

  A man lay on a filthy bed. It wasn’t her father, this emaciated wretch whose face she could see covered in sores. All this effort and she’d found the wrong man. She stood quaking, staring from the door at the apparition.

  Her father could never have looked like this, even if he had been ill – the tall, burly, handsome man she remembered, with the handlebar moustache, the fair hair always slicked down, face ruddy with health, arms bulging with muscle, the whole belligerent attitude of him that would never have allowed him to be reduced to what this man was like.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ she began.

  The body stirred, the head turned and the eyes opened to look towards the voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I think I’ve made a mistake.’

  Flustered, she could hardly wait to get out of the room, back into Ronnie’s strong, comforting, healthy arms. He’d got the information wrong, but if nothing else it had brought him and her together.

  Making towards the door, wanting only to escape this horrible place, she was stopped by the man’s cracked voice. ‘Ellie? Is that you?’

  Ellie froze. It was a while before she could turn to face the stricken man as he said again, ‘That you, Ellie?’

  Thirty

  As Ellie stood transfixed, he spoke her name again, the voice just a croak, hardly above a whisper. Then she heard him say, ‘Come ’ere, so’s I can see yer.’

  She didn’t want to go near him, wished she hadn’t been so full of resolve in telling Ronnie to wait outside. Her determination had collapsed into crass fear, wanting only to have Ronnie hold her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to say, ‘I don’t know who you are. I’ve made a mistake.’

  A skinny hand and forearm rose from the bed. ‘Come ’ere.’ Though the voice croaked, little above a whisper, it bore a note of command, just like her father’s requests had always done. ‘Ellie, come ’ere, yer silly little fool. I ain’t goin’ to ’urt yer.’

  The voice came now, weak and croaking: ‘Ellie, I’m ill…’

  Yet as the words trailed off, an unexpected feeling of pity overwhelmed her, as it would have done at seeing any poor wretch in these conditions. Not knowing why she obeyed, Ellie moved towards the bed.

  At close quarters the state of the sick man was even more alarming. The hair was thin and patchy, revealing the scalp beneath. There were ugly weeping ulcerations on the face and scrawny neck. The eyes looked red and sore. The arm and fingers that had been held out to her were partly covered in a strange rash, the rest of the skin showing brownish-red stains.

  She almost felt relief that this was no one she knew. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice sounding small. ‘How do you know my name?’

  His whisper came haltingly. ‘Don’t yer know me? I’m… yer dad.’

  At the words, panic swept through her. ‘You’re not!’ she burst out. ‘You can’t be!’

  Her voice trembled then broke; fear and disbelief combined into denial that this apparition might once have been a strong man, her own father.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ she whispered, trying to convince herself. But he’d spoken her name. Who else in this awful place would have known it?

  He made no reply. A sigh issued from his blotched lips as if the whole of his breath had been pumped from his frame in a single, slow exhalation. It was like the sound her mother had made when she’d died, though hers had been a gentle, shallow breath, drawn in like all the others before it, then to be quietly exhaled into silence, no breath ever to be drawn in again.

  It had been that strange silence that had made her collapse in grief over her mother’s body until Dora, a mere child, had solemnly coaxed her away. There had been no more tears for a long time after that, as if they had all been expelled with that last breath flowing quietly away from her mother.

  There was no grief here as she gazed down on the man who had said he was her father. If he was dead, then he was dead. She felt only a passing regret at having been robbed of her revenge. Yet revenge hadn’t been on her mind as she’d stood beside the filthy bed, the thin body covered by a dirty and threadbare blanket, its head on a thin and stained pillow.

  A second or two later a sudden great intake of breath startled her. She saw the eyes open and swivel in her direction.

  ‘Please ’elp me…’ he pleaded in a pitiful whisper. ‘I think I’m done for.’

  * * *

  How she got through the weeks that followed Ellie was not sure, her time being divided between pity for him and a feeling that she should be gloating over his plight, telling herself he had only got what he deserved.

  She wanted to remind him of his abuse of her, how she’d felt and how devastated she’d been when his perverted selfishness had made her pregnant, and how humiliated in having it got rid of. She wanted him to see, too, that despite what he’d done to her she had made a life for herself and had come up in the world, that she was only caring for him as any decent person would care for some poor wretch in his state. But she didn’t. What he was suffering was revenge enough.

  His illness sickened her, knowing that his debauched life since leaving his family had brought it about; and it served him right, as far as she was concerned. Yet she couldn’t have brought herself to walk away and leave him in the state in which she had found him.

  At her own expense she had him moved to a clinic. No one could have left such a sick man in that horror of a place, no matter what he’d done. At least she was able to let him see that she had money enough to pay for his care in a private hospital, despite his having left her destitute and her mother dying. This in itself gave her satisfaction.

  Not that he was aware of it, his condition deteriorating so rapidly despite proper medical care and clean conditions.

  ‘He cannot last but a few more weeks, you understand,’ the doctor had informed her impassively, only his eyes betraying his feelings about a well-dressed young woman with a father in such an appalling condition.

  She nodded without emotion, hiding a shrug. She felt neither hatred nor pity any more, and maybe that was the culmination of her revenge: that she felt nothing.

  He’d no doubt picked up the disease not long after leaving home. The way he carried on with women, she wasn’t surprised at what he’d contracted. Poetic justice, if you like – far more than she could ever have dreamt of doling out; yet she was increasingly and uncomfortably aware of indifference as she watched him fading, neither sad nor triumphant. Rather it was keeping it to herself that was telling on her. She had to confide in someone.

  She told Ronnie as they came away from her father’s bedside. Ronnie had been her constant companion and support these two weeks. She could not imagine how she could have coped withou
t him and it was only fair to be honest with him, especially when he remarked this evening how stoical she was, having to stand by and watch her dad slowly dying before her eyes.

  ‘I’m not being stoical,’ she’d said tersely. ‘There’s just nothing there.’

  The confession prompted her to go on. ‘If you want to know, I’ve hated him for years. But now it’s all over. He’s dying and I’m glad he is!’

  She wasn’t prepared for the change in Ronnie’s face, fondness turning suddenly to shock. She’d said too much or hadn’t properly thought out what she’d intended to say. She had been hoping that he would understand. That was going to mean explaining everything in detail, but she hadn’t been prepared for this initial look of horror before she’d even started.

  How could she tell him now? If she did, and he refused to understand, she’d have to walk away, never seeing him ever again. She would have to learn to get on with her life, maybe one day find someone else, though she couldn’t imagine who.

  Meanwhile she would learn to work hard, do all Robert C. Hunnard’s bidding to become a great painter. The thought of losing Ronnie was tearing her to pieces. Yet she needed to explain.

  ‘I’m sorry if you think that’s an awful thing for me to say,’ she began.

  To her dismay, Ronnie made no reply. She was losing him, her life stretching out before her lonely, filled only with work, with looking after Dora, Dora perhaps finding a young man, eventually marrying – and being utterly alone.

  She wanted to plead for him not to think too badly of her. Instead, she released her hold on his arm and moved away a little, seeking to find a little spark of dignity in her step as they walked; but inside she was crying.

  ‘Perhaps I should explain,’ she began coldly. Was she ready to bare her soul to someone who’d suddenly revealed what little faith he had in her?

  Still he said nothing. The silence between them grew as they walked on through the twilight, she on the very verge of turning back and walking off. If she did that, she would never see him again; but do that she felt she had to.

  ‘Explain what?’ he said suddenly, bringing her back to herself.

  ‘Nothing!’ she replied, cold and distant.

  ‘No, Ellie. Whatever it is you’re bottling up, I’m here to ’elp. Yer know I am. I can’t bear you looking so lost and upset over something I said.’

  Something he’d said! He’d said nothing. But his tone was warm and comforting and he reached out and drew her to him. Suddenly she was leaning against him, her face buried in his shoulder as she sobbed fit to bursting. Through a welter of tears she let it all out: how her father had abused her; the indignity of having the doctor, who’d taken pity on her, seeing in her a likeness to his own daughter, help rid her of the thing her father had left her with; how she’d worked so hard yet always failed to save enough money to enable her to trace her father so as to take her revenge for everything he’d done to her. All the time she could feel Ronnie’s arms growing tighter and tighter about her as he listened.

  Slowly her weeping died away and he loosened his hold on her to thread her arm firmly through his again, a support for her. Like this they walked on in silence, not too fast, she dabbing with a small handkerchief at the tears that continued to threaten.

  ‘Are yer going ter be orright?’ he asked as they turned into her street. They were the first words he’d spoken since her outburst. It was as if he hadn’t been able to cope. He hadn’t kissed away her tears, had just held her to him, as anyone would a girl in distress.

  Was he still alarmed by her attitude towards her father? Had he really understood? Was he trying not to show how he felt about her now he knew? She wasn’t prepared to ask as she looked up at him.

  ‘I do feel a lot better,’ she said. How formal that sounded.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I could see you up to yer room and tell Dora you was feeling a bit upset over yer dad. Otherwise she might wonder why you’ve been crying.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ Ellie said, still formal.

  ‘I’ll leave yer then. I’ll take yer tomorrow evening to see yer dad – if yer want to go, that is.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She moved away but turned back, her smile now defiant. ‘By the way, I’ll be moving from here next week. Mr Hunnard is looking for a place for me with a decent studio where I can carry on with my painting. As you know, he says I have great talent and could become quite famous one day.’

  Why had she said that? She saw his face drop, heard him say, ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I’ll still see you?’ she hurried on. ‘I’ll still be living in London.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  It was all so stilted, like passing acquaintances unsure of each other. He had held her so firmly, so comfortingly as she’d wept, but he’d not kissed her or said he loved her. She’d been so sure he loved her even though he was shy of saying so. Now he’d seen another side to her and probably felt it best to back out of this awkward situation he found himself in.

  ‘Well,’ she said lamely, trying to smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ he said again. ‘OK. ’Night then.’

  She returned the parting words, saw him step back, step by step, still facing her as if unsure of going. Then, swinging round on his heel, he walked off. Ellie stood watching him until he turned the corner. He hadn’t looked back. It reminded her of someone going out of her life for ever. But he’d said he would see her tomorrow. She had to be content with that. But what if he didn’t turn up? She thought of Michael Deel. He’d said he would be there to meet her, to ran away with her. But he hadn’t come.

  Slowly she went inside the building and closed the door. A voice accosted her, making her jump. ‘I take it you’ll be paying me next week’s rent before you leave.’

  She turned abruptly. ‘Obviously!’ She hated the man for breaking into her unhappiness. ‘I’ve always paid regularly.’

  ‘Just want to make sure,’ he went on, grinning at her, the slimy little beetle. ‘Course, you’re well off now, ain’t you? and things like that can slip the minds of them with money.’

  ‘I’ll settle before I go,’ she said curtly and hurried on up the stairs, her heart empty.

  * * *

  Her father was dead. All the things she had wanted to say to him, all those things she’d rehearsed for so long, had remained unsaid in the end.

  She’d sat well away from the bed as he faded. When Mum had died she had held her hand until the last and remained holding it long after that cherished soul had passed away. But him – she couldn’t bring herself to give him that comfort. Why then had she felt guilty at not doing so when she had carried this loathing of him for so long?

  Watching him, hating the minutes ticking by as she waited, she’d just wanted to run from the room and leave him to it. And all the time Ronnie had stood behind her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. As if he knew.

  Now her father was gone. Trying to smother this peculiar guilt of hers, she’d forked out for an expensive funeral, an oak coffin lined with white silk (she hadn’t gone to look on him as he lay there), a hearse with black-plumed horses. She and Dora, her brother Charlie, whom Ronnie had traced by an advert in his paper, and Ronnie rode in the chief mourners’ carriage.

  The following carriage had held her old neighbours, the Sharps, who’d been so good to her. In the last carriage, Felix, Jock and several of those she’d made friends with, friends she would soon be leaving behind as her wealth grew. That saddened her, but more than anything else she harboured the fear of losing Ronnie.

  Hunnard had told her she was spending far too much on the funeral, funeral clothes, the new studio, furnishings, leisure. But suddenly money had no value. The thing she really wanted was swiftly becoming out of reach.

  Ronnie had been a staunch friend when she most needed him, even taking time off work to be with her; but he was keeping his distance.

  This Sunday morning in the chill of autumn h
e stood with her by her father’s grave.

  She’d had a huge headstone erected, a towering thing, of white marble embellished with frowning angels. To the stonemason’s raised eyebrows she had specifically ordered they should frown. There were also a marble plinth and base, cold and impenetrable, as if holding the soul down for ever.

  On the base were engraved the words: ‘Albert Charles Jay, born 1860, died 1902’ – nothing more. He deserved nothing more, no sentiments, not even the day and month of his birth or his death. She didn’t want to know, cared even less.

  Nearby was her mother’s grave. With her money she’d had her mum’s body exhumed from the poor little graveyard where it had lain all this time and reburied with great ceremony in this lovely cemetery, not beside him but further away.

  She, too, had a headstone now, a far humbler one, but more important by its very simplicity, with all Ellie’s love borne out by a kindly stone angel smiling down on the quiet resting place. At her mother’s grave she had wept, letting her love fall with her tears on to the new, clean soil in which she had planted beautiful flowers and would continue to plant them until her own life left her. Her father’s grave, despite the elaborate headstone, would always remain bare.

  ‘I just want to look at my mum’s grave before we leave,’ she said to Ronnie as they stepped away from the cold headstone and bare, solid base where no flowers would ever grow, not even a blade of grass.

  She felt Ronnie’s arm come around her shoulders as they made their way towards the other grave. If only, she thought with a pang, that arm had been about her waist rather than her shoulder.