She knew he had no sons, only two daughters who both bustled into the hall to meet her. They were charming and, one on each side, escorted her into a vast drawing room glittering with mirrors and enormous pictures. She looked around and saw that a harp stood in one corner between the bay windows. Facing it from the other side of the room was a magnificent grand piano with open sheets of music on the stand. There were flowers everywhere, lilies and roses in huge vases, and the furniture was all in the French style with spindly gilt legs and pale silk upholstery.
Lying on a scroll-ended chaise longue with a black pug at her feet was a woman in a brown silk dress decorated with quantities of very expensive cream lace. She had a finely boned patrician face and piled up dark hair – dyed, Lizzie noted. One hand was held out towards the visitor and a voice with a strong foreign intonation asked, ‘Who’s this? Who’s come to call? Is it Maria Andreyevna?’
‘No, Mama,’ said one of the girls gently, ‘it’s Father’s friend, Mrs Kinge. Don’t you remember that he told us she would be coming today?’
She turned to Lizzie and whispered, ‘Mama becomes forgetful sometimes, but please sit down beside her. She’s really been looking forward to your visit.’
Slightly at a loss, Lizzie sat on a Louis XV chair and spread her skirts out, grateful that she was wearing her newest and most flattering gown, a pale lavender with minute pin tucks down the breasts and around the hem. All the Johanson women were incredibly smart and fashionable. One of the daughters, who had Goldie’s blond hair, was wearing green while the other, who looked older and resembled her mother, wore a dress of rich red with a trim bustle at the back.
Mrs Johanson regarded Lizzie’s gown with approval. ‘That’s pretty. Is it from Worth?’ she asked.
Lizzie shook her head but no answer was necessary really because Goldie’s wife did not wait for a reply and was talking in an animated way about fashion and dress designers. She seemed to be very knowledgeable. Every now and again she remembered who Lizzie was and fired questions at her.
‘Where is your son now, Mrs Kinge? My husband said he went to Canada. Is he still there? Will he miss this terrible war? Don’t you think this war will be a disaster for my country? There’s so much unrest there that it is dangerous now.’
Lizzie answered the first question by saying, ‘My son’s still in Canada as far as I know.’ Then she looked questioningly at the elder daughter who was pouring tea from an enormous silver teapot.
The girl explained, ‘Mama is Russian. She and Papa met when he was shipping timber to Archangel. Her family are still there.’
Mrs Johanson’s mental distraction was becoming obvious because she looked at Lizzie with a frown and asked in a confused way, ‘Have you come to see my sister? Have you come to talk to Maria?’
The blonde girl intervened. ‘This is Mrs Kinge, Mama. Papa’s friend.’
The woman on the sofa brightened again. ‘Of course. My husband’s such an admirer of yours, Mrs Kinge. He’s talked about you ever since you punched some man in the jute-barons’ club. What an outrageous thing to do!’ She gave a peal of enchanting laughter and Lizzie looked surprised.
‘A woman who can knock out a man with one punch made a great impression on him,’ said Goldie’s wife, slowly feeding biscuits to her pug.
It was difficult to carry on a conversation however because every now and again, the woman’s mind seemed to slip away. Sometimes she asked her daughters what day it was or if tea would be served soon.
‘But we’ve taken tea, Mama. Look, there’s your cup on the table. Do you want some more?’ The girls were tremendously patient with her and Lizze was full of admiration for their tact.
She found the visit very tiring however and was preparing to leave when Mrs Johanson suddenly became alert again and said in a perfectly sensible way, ‘I’m very glad to see you, Mrs Kinge. It was kind of you to visit me. My husband is not normally susceptible to young women but I wanted to see you. For your sake he was thrown out of the club. He said it didn’t matter but he’s been a member there since he was a young man.’
‘What club?’ Lizzie looked around in surprise at Goldie’s daughters who were supervising the maids as they removed the tea things. They were about to explain when their mother’s voice cut in.
She was perfectly cogent as she said, ‘The jute-men’s club, of course. That fellow Sutherland had him blackballed because he’s helping you. He laughs about it. He says it shows how petty they are.’
Lizzie felt cold. She had no idea that such a bitter vendetta was being waged against her and anyone who helped her. ‘He should have told me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know he had to leave the club.’
But Mrs Johanson had retreated into her secret world again and was asking her daughters when tea was to be served.
After her visit Lizzie waited impatiently for Goldie’s next appearance in her office. He did not come for several days but when he was shown in eventually, she could hardly contain herself till the door closed.
‘I didn’t know Sooty made you leave the club. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Goldie hooked his cane over the back of a chair and asked, ‘What good would it do? You couldn’t do anything about it. It’s typical of them. Sutherland’s always been underhand, ever since he was a schoolboy. I’m sorry my wife told you, though. There was no need for you to know.’
Lizzie frowned. ‘Your wife thought it important. It was on her mind.’
Goldie said slowly, ‘I’m very grateful you went to call on her. I know how difficult it is – but she was insistent that I ask you. You may not have realized it but she was very eager to meet you. She’s kept talking and talking about you ever since. It really helped because it gave her something to think about.’
Lizzie spread her hands in despair. ‘But I didn’t do anything. I hardly said anything. I felt very useless.’
‘She admired you,’ said Goldie simply and Lizzie blushed.
‘I’m glad I could help,’ was all she could say and then they got down to business.
Chapter 23
On the evening of 4 August 1914 as she drove home from her mill, Lizzie saw huge black headlines on news vendors’ billboards screaming out: WAR DECLARED. She had not thought about the war much recently because she was far too busy coping with the increased volume of orders that warmongering caused. It was almost an anticlimax to discover that the Cassandras had been right after all – war was no longer a rumour but a reality.
‘You’d better make the best of it. It’s going to be over by Christmas,’ counselled old Mr Bateson next morning. He was really retired but still came into Green Tree almost every day because he could not stay away. She trusted his judgement but for once he was wrong. It was not over by Christmas.
When New Year dawned Lizzie came home from her bustling mill with her clothes smelling of jute dust and was handed a letter at the door by Maggy. It was from Canada, only the second she had received from her son. The first had jauntily announced that he’d reached Vancouver and intended to stay there for a while.
This one was as bright and cheerful:
Dear Mother, Maggy and Lexie-for-short,
Just to let you know that I’m well. Another Scot from Aberdeen called William Pennie and I have trekked across from Vancouver to Toronto and joined the 16th Battalion of the Canadian Scottish. They’re a great bunch of lads. Our Colonel is called Peck and we’re shipping out for Flanders next week. I told a lie about my age so don’t let me down. I can hardly wait to get at those Boche! They won’t have a chance against the Scots laddies, will they?
Love from Charlie.
Lizzie felt her heart hammering like a mad thing when she read it. Already the news from the front was bad enough to cause her concern at the thought of Charlie going there.
‘He should have stayed in Canada. He didn’t need to join up,’ she told Maggy, handing her the note.
Maggy read it with a frightened face. Then she said, ‘You ken fine the Boss couldn’t stay out of a
scrap. We’ll just have to pray for him, Lizzie.’
It was not Lizzie’s way to take trouble quietly. She sent a cable to the War Office in London telling them that her son had falsified his age in order to join the army but if her cable was received, it was ignored. Men were needed and no one was being too fussy about who they accepted. Charlie was on his way to the war and nothing could be done to stop him. When she realized the futility of protest her rage against George grew even more bitter.
‘If he hadn’t left Charlie in Canada this would never have happened,’ she raged to Maggy, who dropped her eyes and said nothing.
It was a terrible winter. The winds blew sleet down from the north and it seemed that there was only light for a few hours in the middle of the day. Lamp lighters stalked the streets by half past three in the afternoon and in the morning when Lizzie left for the mill she travelled in pitch darkness. Her first call, no matter how early, was at the newsagent’s where she bought a newspaper and tried to scan the lists of killed and wounded in the feeble light of dawn.
On the way home, no matter how late, she again stopped the carriage and bought an evening paper, but whenever Maggy saw her turning to the back page where the names of the dead were listed, she snatched the sheet from Lizzie’s hand and snapped, ‘He cannae be there. He’ll no’ be across the Atlantic yet.’
There were no parties in Tay Lodge that winter and Lexie kept out of Lizzie’s way, slipping along the corridors like a wraith. When Lizzie did meet the girl, it seemed as if there was something on Lexie’s mind, but no encouragement to confidences was offered by the older half sister. She was too preoccupied to worry about a schoolgirl’s concerns. If Lexie tried to talk to her, she usually said, ‘If you want something, ask Maggy, dear. I’m very busy.’
Late one night, while freezing rain was lashing the house, someone came knocking loudly at the front door of Tay Lodge. From her bedroom Lizzie heard a grumbling maid crossing the hall to open the door and inquire what the trouble was. A girl’s voice answered and when the bedroom door was opened, Bertha Davidson stood there, in a mill worker’s black shawl and heavy boots.
‘It’s my da. He’s dying and he wants to see you,’ she said without preamble to the woman sitting up among lace-trimmed pillows in the firelight glow.
Lexie was asleep and they did not waken her, but Lizzie and Maggy went back with Bertha to the Vaults. They travelled by cab because it was quicker than to wait for the carriage to be hauled from its shed and the horses to be harnessed. As they drove through the deserted streets, Lizzie remembered the night her mother was killed. There was sleet in the cutting wind then, and little Georgie had huddled close beside her in their window watching the storm. Her rage seemed to seep away and terrible guilt about the way she had treated him filled her heart. Her lips moved in silent prayer: Oh God, don’t take him away. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t let Georgie die.
Rosie was grim-faced and silent when she opened the door.
‘How is he?’ asked Lizzie.
‘He’s dying.’
‘No, no, he’s not. He’s been bad before and recovered.’ His sister was grasping at straws.
‘Not as bad as this,’ said Rosie.
George was propped up gasping against piled pillows and a bloodstained cloth lay on the floor beside his bed.
Lizzie ran across to the bed recess and took his hand, ‘You’re going to be all right. I’m going to fetch a doctor for you.’
‘The doctor’s been,’ snapped Rosie.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’ll come back tomorrow if George’s still alive.’
Lizzie turned on the woman. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that in front of him. He can hear you.’
‘He’s not daft. He knows what’s happening. That’s why he asked to see you, though I wonder why he bothered. He wants to speak to you and he’s not much strength. Get on with it. Help him.’ Rosie sounded abrupt and rude but her face was twitching with emotion as she walked towards the fireplace where a kettle was boiling on the red coals.
Lizzie knelt beside her brother. His face was drawn and white and his eyes seemed to burn as he fixed them on her face.
‘Dear Lizzie,’ he whispered.
‘You must get better,’ she told him. The thought of him dying terrified her.
He shook his head slowly and his voice was very faint. ‘I’m sorry about Charlie. I tried but he wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry…’ His voice trailed off in coughing. Bloodstains spread on the cloth he held to his mouth.
Lizzie clutched at his other hand, trying to share some of her own vitality with him. ‘I’m the one that’s sorry. I was wrong. I was so stupid. I should’ve understood – I did really but I didn’t want to admit it. Oh, George, I never really meant to send you away. Why did you go? You should have stood up to me…’
The tears were running down her cheeks and she was oblivious to the three women standing behind her.
George did not speak but only patted her hand and she went on talking as if words would turn aside the death that waited for him. ‘I’m sorry. You’re my dear brother and I love you so much. I know how difficult it must have been for you to deal with Charlie. Oh, Georgie, I wish this had never happened. When I think of all the time that we’ve wasted…’
George’s eyes were closed and she was not sure if he heard her. Casting a look over her shoulder at Rosie she asked, ‘Do you think he’s hearing me? I want him to know what I feel… I want him to know.’
Rosie stared back hard eyed and said nothing. George, without opening his eyes, tried to put a hand on her head to soothe her but did not have the strength. His arm flopped on the coverlet.
‘It’s all right, Lizzie. It’s all right. He understands,’ said Maggy in a strangled voice.
The woman sat with him all night and when the first light of dawn was streaking the sky, he died.
When she saw that he was gone Rosie Davidson lost her steely composure and threw herself across his body keening and wailing like a madwoman, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’
It took the combined strength of Maggy, Lizzie and Bertha to drag her away from him, sit her down in the wooden armchair and thrust a mug of tea into her hands.
Through her tears she stared at Lizzie with hatred. ‘Why were you so damned stiff? Why didn’t you come? Lexie tried to tell you but she was scared to talk to you and so was Maggy. He was so sad. He didn’t need anything but he wanted to see you. He wouldn’t let me send for you and you just sat there in your bloody great mill acting the lady. Why didn’t you come?’
Lizzie did not argue but sank her head on her arms and wept. It was her first open and real outpouring of grief since Sam’s death. The tears seemed to come from deep, deep inside her and when they were all shed she felt clean, emptied, hollow.
She rose from her chair and left the room without speaking. For the next two hours she walked the streets of Dundee, her head bent against the wind as she went up one street and down the other, thinking, remembering her brother and trying to make sense of her life. It was the first time she had paused to take stock of herself since the day she took over Green Tree Mill.
* * *
Davie and Robert attended their half brother’s funeral and, mindful of the rift between herself and George which had been so belatedly mended, Lizzie made a point of approaching both of them with the hand of friendship extended.
Davie, she discovered, was married. Robert, whose reddened face and shaking hands betrayed a problem with drink, was on the verge of leaving Dundee for Flanders because he intended to join the army as soon as George’s funeral was over.
‘And I’m going too as soon as I can sell the Castle Bar,’ Davie told her.
‘But you don’t have to – you’re a married man,’ she protested, suddenly afraid for him, her little brother. It seemed as if her entire family was being swept away.
Davie grinned. ‘I want to go. All the men I know are joining up. It’s my duty. I’m no’ wanting a
white feather.’
On walls all over the city, posters were stuck up showing the bearded face of Kitchener pointing a finger at passers-by and saying, ‘Join Your Country’s Army! God Save the King.’ The war machine’s appetite for men was even greater than it was for jute and she knew that was great enough to satisfy even the most hungry jute-baron.
On the day her brother Davie left for France, a letter arrived for Lexie from him. He wrote to say that he’d succeeded in selling the bar for a good price and since he knew she’d been left nothing by either of her parents, he thought she should have something to bank ‘for a rainy day’. Enclosed was a cheque for one hundred pounds.
* * *
Charlie Kinge’s euphoric dream of patriotism and bravery began to fade almost as soon as he landed in France and saw trains of wounded men being ferried back across the Channel. At Calais station the walking wounded staggered past the new arrivals without as much as a sidelong glance. Many of them wore bloodstained bandages and all had a peculiarly glazed stare as if they were drugged.
Nothing however prepared him for the hell of the trenches. The Germans were only twenty-two miles from Dunkirk and the Ypres offensive had been launched earlier in the month with a terrible casualty toll. He was in Flanders for six months and every morning when he opened his eyes, he was certain it was to be his last day.
It was Pennie who organized it so that he and Charlie became bicycle dispatch riders.
When Charlie was told about his new job, he was appalled.
‘But it’s the most dangerous job in the army. That’s why they always make Red Indians dispatch riders,’ he protested.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Pennie with a finger laid along the side of his nose. ‘It’s safer than fighting. You get on your bike with a note for the general and you head for the nearest shelter till the firing’s over. We’ll not have to go over the top with the others and we’ll usually have to head out of trouble because the staff officers are all behind the lines. Those redskins aren’t so daft. Take it from me. This is our insurance policy.’
Mistress of Green Tree Mill Page 26
