Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  Paul Butlin sighed. There would be leaves and acorns everywhere, and at the harvest service in a couple of weeks he would be knee-deep in apples and home-made preserves. Anna Chandler did nothing by halves. ‘Cup of tea in the vestry?’ he suggested.

  She nodded. He noticed that her hat wobbled again as she moved. The fedora-style creation was far too big for her, as were most of her clothes. Once a rounded woman, Anna had arrived at old age in a leaner state, yet she refused to spend money on the refurbishment of her wardrobe. A standing joke in the parish was that when Miss Anna looked left or right, the famous hat continued eyes front. Save for the barking of orders, she spoke to few; only the vicar was privy to any of this woman’s secrets.

  In the vestry, they sat one each side of a tiny table into whose surface were etched initials carved by generations of choirboys. He poured the tea and looked into eyes whose colour, once an impossible shade of green, had been clouded over by the mists of time. ‘How are you?’ he asked, suddenly aware of his own shortcomings. Her family had built St Augustine’s, had maintained it throughout many generations – at least a dozen of the long-deceased were ensconced in the crypt below. She made him feel inadequate, as if she saw straight through him. In fact, this interview was almost like being back at school and in the presence of a teacher whose serious displeasure was about to be made plain.

  ‘I am well,’ she replied. She was not well. Her physical self was in a reasonable enough condition for a woman of her age, but her mind was uneasy. She sighed heavily. ‘There are goings-on,’ she said darkly.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Well, I don’t. If you see, please explain things to me, Reverend Butlin, because my family is totally beyond my comprehension.’ She sipped her tea, then clattered the cup into its saucer. ‘Have you tried to see my brother? Have you?’

  The vicar bowed his head. ‘Yes, I have. And your nephew absolutely forbids me to enter the room in which Henry lives.’

  ‘Exists,’ she spat scornfully. ‘There is nothing wrong with him, you know. Alcoholism in the male Chandlers is quite normal. My nephew is proof enough of that. He has locked away his own father, yet Richard imbibes daily and in great quantities.’ She reached across the table and grasped her companion’s hand. ‘I think my great-niece has left the grange. It has become too much for her. I shall visit when Richard is out of the way and I shall find out then.’ Thin fingers dug into his flesh. ‘We must rescue Henry.’

  Paul Butlin swallowed. No longer a child in the company of an irate headmistress, he now felt like a peripheral character in one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books. Was he supposed to round up the rest of the gang, dog included, break into the grange and pick locks with hairpins? ‘I have tried to talk to Mrs Chandler,’ he offered, ‘but she, too, stays away from old Mr Chandler’s room. He is reputed to be …’

  ‘He grabs women.’ Anna spared him the necessity of finishing his sentence and almost crushed his hand. ‘It’s all a great nonsense, a tale manufactured so that Richard could take the reins. Yes, my brother was disordered at one time, but he must be better by now, especially if he is denied drink. He must have been through hell up there. That was why I left.’ She freed the vicar’s hand from her vice-like grip.

  Paul, glad to regain his fingers, noticed a small bleed where one of her nails had pierced his flesh. ‘And you fear that Meredith has gone?’

  ‘Yes, and the boys will follow.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And that will be when my nephew will finish off my brother.’

  Even from Miss Anna Chandler, this was a wild statement. The idea of Richard Chandler murdering his own father was ridiculous. ‘Miss Chandler, I—’

  ‘And Jean will not stay here without her children, no.’ To emphasize the statement, she shook her head beneath its unstable fedora. ‘No, she has remained here just to guard them, I am sure. Something must be done.’

  The something that needed doing lay in regions far beyond the reach of Paul Butlin’s imagination. He could not march up the driveway to the grange and beg its master not to commit patricide; nor could he allow himself to be drawn into the other theory expressed by Miss Chandler. ‘I cannot … er … I cannot speak to Mrs Chandler without some facts. It would seem strange if I were to beg her to stay – she has not announced her intention to leave.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled grimly. ‘You asked me what was wrong, Reverend Butlin. Yes, it is impossible – I know that only too well. But there is something brewing. I can almost smell it in the air.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he replied lamely.

  ‘And we shall become a great deal sorrier.’ With this final statement, the maiden aunt of Richard Chandler left the table and returned to the altar. On the pristine cloth, she spread leaves in shades varying from greens to browns to reds. It was the end of the season. Yes, and it was the beginning of something else …

  Appointed by the other two as the best writer of letters, Marie Martindale picked up her finished effort and prepared to read it aloud. They were in the front parlour of 34 Emblem Street and, thus far, they had managed to keep secret their intentions. Aggie Turner, stalwart and valued member of a family of fish-fryers, had not told her parents of her plan to leave home, while Josie Maguire had not dared to speak of her desire to move out and, worse still, her need to quit the hallowed firm of Marks and Spencer.

  Marie cleared her throat.

  ‘Dear Miss—’

  ‘She might be a madam,’ said Josie.

  ‘Madams run red-light houses,’ Aggie scoffed. ‘I read about them in the Sunday papers.’

  Marie glowered. ‘Will you shut up? If you can do any better, write it yourselves. Now, listen.’

  They listened.

  ‘In response to your advertisement in the local press, we write in the hope that we may be helpful in your search for adventure. There are three of us and we were all educated at grammar school. Miss Agnes Turner helps her parents in the family business, where she has gained experience in the areas of retail and food preparation.’

  ‘And dogs,’ said Josie, ‘and vomit and vinegar.’

  Marie glared at her. ‘Do you plan on living till tomorrow? Because you may need to talk to the undertaker about coffin linings if you carry on.’ She turned to Aggie. ‘And what the hell are you laughing at?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The little red-haired girl organized her features. ‘Lead on, Macduff,’ she ordered.

  ‘Miss Josephine Maguire is currently employed at Marks and Spencer, Deansgate, Bolton, where she is being trained for management. One word about American Tan nylons, Josie Maguire, and you are out on the streets. Right?’

  ‘We do Sandalwood too,’ offered Josie. ‘And tights before long – they’ve already got them in America. No suspender belts – imagine that. Don’t forget, I shall soon be in tights as well. Do you remember when we did The Merchant of Venice in the fifth form and Shylock’s pants and tights fell down in the middle of that “pound of flesh” speech? They got more than a pound’s worth, didn’t they, Ags?’

  ‘They did,’ said Aggie, ‘they got her daft puffed-out trousers and a bum as big as Manchester. Who played Shylock? Was it Winnie Doodah, her with the teeth? No, she didn’t have a big bum. Must have been Cynthia Chorlton …’ Aggie’s voice faded to nothing. ‘Go on, Marie.’

  ‘One more interruption and you are both dead.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Miss Marie Martindale is a legal secretary who has been employed by a reputable Bolton firm for the past five years.’ Marie paused, waited for comments about bum-feelers and paper clips, was relieved when none arrived. ‘All three of us are looking for a change of direction and an opportunity to be part of a new venture. We have very little money to invest, but we are capable and hardworking women with enthusiasm and a willingness to learn. We remain, Yours faithfully.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Josie.

  ‘What did you expect?’ replied Marie. ‘A Tale of Two flaming Cities? Now, shut up and sign it. Are your hands clean, A
ggie?’

  ‘Course they are,’ came the swift answer, ‘I’m not frying till tonight.’

  Each girl applied her signature to the document, after which event the atmosphere became more serious. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ volunteered Josie. ‘We don’t need to do it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Aggie, ‘we don’t need to take the jobs. Anyway, she might not like us. She might not want a little fat redhead who stinks of chip fat, or a lanky loony who sells stockings. She might not even want a legal secretary who’s dangerous with paper clips.’

  ‘And we’ve no money,’ added Marie. ‘She could even get some rich people wanting to join her. And, let’s face it – we might not like her. But we still have our steady jobs to fall back on if we’re not suitable.’

  ‘Just don’t fall back into a potato-chipper,’ Aggie advised.

  ‘Or into Sandalwood stockings.’ Josie’s tone was gloomy.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Marie, ‘because I’m saying nothing about falling back into Mr Garswood. He’s a bloody pervert, he is, always staring at my chest.’

  The other two girls eyed said chest. ‘It is big,’ said Josie, her tone serious.

  ‘It’d make a good life jacket,’ was Aggie’s contribution. ‘You’d not drown with that lot in front of you, Marie.’

  ‘The chap who designed the Eiffel Tower makes Marie’s bras,’ offered Josie, ‘all scaffolding and whalebone.’

  Had the advertiser seen the cushion-fight that followed, she would not have been impressed by these prospective giants of industry …

  Dave Armstrong was fed up to the back teeth with his job. For six days a week, he was shut in with old Mr Chandler, a shrivelled wreck of a man in his seventy-ninth year. At night, the old reprobate was locked in his room, as he was still able to walk and could cause a fair amount of mayhem around the house, especially when he came into contact with a woman. During the days, however, he needed feeding, changing and keeping calm. Feeding was not easy, changing was difficult, while the word ‘calm’ was not in the repertoire where Henry Chandler was concerned.

  Well, thank God, Polly Fishwick was supposed to be taking over in the near future, because Dave had had enough. At the age of thirty, he was ready to move on, to get an outside job: labouring or farm work, something that did not involve human waste and regurgitated food.

  Henry, who was far from happy in his own twilight world, regarded Dave as a challenge. He clawed at him, sank dentures into his flesh, spat in his face and enjoyed the reactions of his victim. The clawing was solved quite easily – Dave waited until Henry was asleep, then trimmed the nails. Dentures proved more difficult, though they were confiscated from time to time, but the spitting was continuous.

  Dave, who had just had what he called ‘a bugger of a time’, made sure that his patient was asleep, turned the key, then went downstairs to speak to the master. He knocked at the study door. ‘Come,’ called Richard.

  The servant entered the room, found Richard Chandler at his desk and in his cups. Oh, no. Richard Chandler sober was abusive; Richard Chandler drunk was abusive and unreasonable. Dave cleared his throat. ‘I can’t manage any more, sir,’ he began. ‘He’s just brought all his breakfast up on purpose and bitten my right hand nearly through to the bones.’ He raised the bandaged fingers. ‘One day off isn’t enough, Mr Chandler. Can you not get that lad to do more days? And when is Polly Fishwick starting?’

  Richard drained his glass and refilled it. He was in a mess. The fragrant one was still here, as was the housekeeper, but either or both could walk out any day now. If he moved Polly in, Jean and Sally Foster would disappear within half an hour; if he didn’t move Polly in, Dave Armstrong might give in his notice. Why wouldn’t the old man die? ‘I’ll sort something out,’ was his blurred response.

  But Dave Armstrong suddenly decided that he was truly at the end of his tether. Working for a drunk was not his idea of a good life; spending his days with a senile old man was equally unsavoury. He steeled himself. ‘Sorry, sir, but I want to leave. It’s no life for me, this isn’t. Your dad is very confused now and I can’t manage him. Polly won’t manage, either. I think you’d be better putting him in a home, somewhere that has enough staff to cope with him. He’s going through two or three sets of bedding a day. He even stands there and pees on the new sheets as soon as I’ve put them on. It’s all a game to him, but I can’t see the funny side.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So I want to leave, sir.’

  ‘A week’s notice, then?’

  Dave Armstrong nodded.

  ‘Very well. You may go now. Just work the rest of the week, then I shall have him moved to a nursing home.’

  Shocked, Dave left the room and stood in the hall, his head shaking slowly from side to side. There had been no insult, no threat, no pleading, no bribery. It was almost as if Richard Chandler had changed overnight, because he had behaved like an ordinary, sensible man. That could mean only one thing – the master must be up to something. Oh well, it was no skin off Dave Armstrong’s nose. He would be out of here in a week’s time, and that was good enough for him.

  Inside the office, an inebriated man stared at the spot on which his sons had stood just days earlier. They had explained about not wanting university, had told him that his reaction would be predictable – Jeremy had even mentioned his idea about the gun cabinet. They were definitely leaving, had attended no meals since the day of the announcement. Jean continued to sit in the dining room, the vast space between herself and her husband proving that those final, tenuous links had been severed. No children any more, nothing to hold together the Chandler household.

  He drank another double Scotch. He had to go and speak to Polly Fishwick yet again, because the rules were changing all the time. Damn and blast Jean, stupid bitch. She had the upper hand now, didn’t she? He had allowed that brainless, gutless woman to get the better of him. No further reference to her plans had been made, so, if he behaved himself, she might stay. He shivered. What a delightful prospect – just himself, Sally Foster and the fragrant one rattling about in this vast house, the only interruptions coming from dailies and tradesmen. Wonderful.

  Dad would have to go, of course. That would be yet another expense, payment to a nursing home whose staff would do their best to keep Henry alive, because Henry and others like him were their source of income. ‘When am I going to start winning?’ he asked the empty glass.

  There was no answer; even if this inanimate object had been able to consider the question, the indisputable fact remained that there was never to be a final solution. The old man should be dead. Nanny Foster, too, needed to be history, while Jean Chandler ought to relearn her place in the scheme of things. But the sands of time continued to shift, while Richard Chandler had to walk softly on the surface so as not to disturb his own dubious underpinnings.

  Jeremy and Peter were visiting their sister. She was living in a rather grand though characterless room with adequate furniture, its own bathroom and a view of one of the town’s squares. She was delighted to see her brothers. ‘Good for you,’ she exclaimed when they had recounted the tale of the showdown with Father. ‘Did he change colour?’

  ‘Puce,’ said Jeremy.

  ‘With some magenta,’ added Peter. ‘And we managed not to use a gun, though Jer did tell him how desperate we are. Then, there’s Mother. Have you heard, Merry?’

  She nodded. ‘Biding her time, I imagine. Mother may act stupid, but she is a planner. I know for a fact that she has sent Nanny Foster to pick up details from estate agents – Nanny called in to see me. It is beginning to look like a mass exodus, isn’t it?’

  Jeremy agreed. ‘None of this suits Father, so he is on his best behaviour. Dave Armstrong is leaving, which means that Grandfather will go into some sort of nursing home – and we have heard nothing more about Polly Fishwick, so goodness knows what will happen on that front. Father is going to be a very lonely man.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Meredith. ‘But, oh, I am s
o glad that you are here. I had some replies to my advertisement, though most went straight into the bin. But there is one here that caught my eye – three girls who told me just about enough to interest me and not enough to bore me. They will be here shortly for interview. Now,’ she perched on the end of the bed, ‘how does one do an interview?’

  ‘Crikey,’ exclaimed Peter, ‘God knows. Jer?’

  ‘I’m not God,’ answered Jeremy. ‘Father would know.’

  ‘Some use you two are.’ Meredith laughed nervously. ‘Would you like to go home and ask Father? He could give us some hints, perhaps.’

  ‘No.’ Jeremy shook his head. ‘God would be a better bet.’

  ‘I don’t even know what sort of business I am thinking of.’ She jumped up and began to pace the room. No matter how long and hard she thought, she still returned to chandlery. ‘I should have waited until I had an idea of what I want to do. But I jumped in before I was ready, as always.’

  Jeremy smiled. ‘Like that time when you were being taught to swim? First lesson and straight in at the deep end, according to Mother. I think you have inherited your jump-now-and-think-later attitude from Father. He is drinking like a fish, by the way, straight in at the deep end of the whisky decanter.’

  Meredith stopped in her tracks, nursed another idea for a moment, set off again. Sometimes, she despaired of herself. She knew that she wanted to do something, yet she could not manage to come up with any sensible plans. Chandlery? And now, here she stood – well, walked about – three young women about to arrive, no concept of how to interview, no questions prepared. She did not often feel like running away from life, but her feet were itching to be out of the hotel, out of Bolton and off the planet altogether.

  Peter glanced at his brother. ‘It may be time to fasten her to a chair.’ Meredith had been their victim many times during their childhoods, had allowed herself to be roped as a prisoner while the ‘Injuns’ had circled her.