Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘And you looked after him in return.’

  She nodded. ‘Died in my arms in the middle of a game of Ludo. Things were never the same after that.’

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, each looking back to years that had been different, sometimes better. Pol smiled inwardly. Had she taken the job of looking after Henry, she would have been happy. But Jean Chandler would not have been. ‘More tea?’ she asked.

  He suddenly felt weary. How could he fight them now? Yes, he had deliberately made himself certifiable, had fought like a geriatric tiger against those who would constrain him. ‘No tea. Just tidy me up as best you can.’ An amusing thought struck. ‘If we had a wig, you could shave the moustache and put me in a frock. I could be your long-lost grandmother.’

  Pol looked at the sad, isolated figure who was true owner of the estate, whose son she now hated; the anger rose in her chest. She would fight on Henry Chandler’s behalf right to the last ditch. For the first time in many, many years, Pol Fishwick had a goal that was outside her own self-interest. She would do her best to protect this vulnerable man.

  She trimmed his moustache, standing so close to him that she could feel, see and almost smell his fear, his near-paralysis. And with every snip, her determination grew; if it was the last thing she ever achieved, she would free this man from solitary confinement.

  Jean’s neck was very sore. Swallowing was hard, as was speaking, so she sat quietly at the breakfast table and pondered the next step. She must speak, though, had to deal with this new day.

  Her husband had been taken away in a straitjacket and she was neither sorry nor surprised. Meredith was living in a hotel. An empty house on Crompton Way was being purchased; everyone and everything was in a state of flux. Then there was Henry, the old man who had drunk himself to the point of no return. What was the next step? And in which direction should she move?

  Jeremy and Peter were eating eggs and toast; they noticed, but did not remark upon, the silk scarf round their mother’s neck. It was blue and white and it hid their father’s crime. For a reason that lay beyond the bounds of explanation, the two boys felt guilty. Peter had a vague notion that simply being male made him answerable; Jeremy, angrier than his twin, was guilty because he had not saved his mother. He should have seen it coming, should have realized that his father had taken that last stride into the special lunacy that was dipsomania.

  ‘We shall have to get your grandfather back.’ Jean’s voice was croaky, as if it needed oiling. ‘We cannot leave him with Mrs Fishwick.’

  Peter stirred his tea absently. ‘We can find help and drive round the woods to the cottage. Don’t worry about it, Mother, because Jeremy and I will organize all that.’

  She raised her head. ‘You are good boys. Please, I beg you, curtail your drinking. Look what it has done to your father and grandfather. Until recently, I remained unconvinced, but now I edge nearer to the belief that drink plagues generations. So take care.’

  Peter nodded. ‘We shall.’

  Sally Foster wandered in with a fresh pot of tea. ‘Here you are.’ She was determinedly bright, though her abdomen was not yet at peace.

  ‘Sit with us,’ said Jean. ‘The rules – his rules – are suspended for now. We have to get Henry back. I know that Mrs Fishwick has a reputation for guarding herself well, but—’

  The front doorbell sounded. Sally Foster, who had not had time to sit down, went to answer it. Less than thirty seconds later, she returned. ‘It’s Pol Fishwick,’ she said. ‘I’ve left her in the hall.’

  Jean, too weary for proprieties, nodded just once. Everyone in this room had been involved in the Chandler family’s exhibition of dirty washing, so one more short step would not cause matters to deteriorate. ‘Bring her in, please.’

  Polly, standing in an area that was bigger than her whole house, was suddenly nervous. What the hell was she doing here? She had begun her journey in righteous indignation, but now her battlements were crumbling. Generations of Chandlers stared down from the walls, not one of them to mend another for looks. Ugly bastards, the lot of them. There was an over-whelming smell of drink and Mansion Furniture Wax. She was scared.

  ‘Follow me,’ said the po-faced housekeeper.

  Oh, what had happened to temper? Pol wondered as she travelled on reluctant feet towards the next big event. What could she say? Was she prepared to face Richard Chandler? More to the point, would she cope with his wife and his children? She had to, she had to.

  He was not there. Pol’s shoulders almost sagged with relief while she counted the occupants of the dining room. Then trepidation returned as she found herself in the company of Jean Chandler and her twin sons. ‘I … er … sorry if I’m disturbing you, like. Shall I wait in the hall while you have your breakfast?’

  Jean shook her head. ‘We are late today, Mrs Fishwick. Sit down, please. Would you like tea?’

  Pol sat on the edge of a dining chair while the lady of the manor poured tea. This room was big enough for a barn dance. Its walls, half-panelled in oak, bore more paintings. The fire-place was enormous, the curtains were of weighted velvet. She was out of place.

  ‘There.’ Jean set the cup down in front of her blowzy guest.

  Pol took a sip, allowed the cup to shiver its way back into its saucer. ‘I … I’ve got Mr Henry in my house.’

  ‘We know,’ answered Jean.

  The visitor inhaled deeply. ‘I am on a message from him,’ she said carefully. ‘There’s nowt wrong with him, you see.’ There, it was out. ‘So he wants clothes and shoes, then the doctor. He’s a bit forgetful, like, but he isn’t crackers, Mrs Chandler. In fact, he’s a long way from that.’

  Jeremy raised a corner of his upper lip. Of course Grandfather was crazy. The old man had been raving for months.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Jean, the words fighting for survival as they journeyed past damaged vocal cords.

  ‘I’m experienced. I’ve seen it all before with my grandad.’ There was something very wrong here. Henry had mentioned a big argument, had said that these two women had seemed hurt, but Pol had wondered whether that might have been a small corner of senility showing through. ‘Excuse me for asking, Mrs Chandler, but are you all right?’

  ‘She is not all right.’ These hard-edged words came from the mouth of Jeremy. ‘Your fancy man made sure of that.’

  An ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the half-hour, its pretty song inappropriate in an atmosphere so tense. Pol turned her head slowly until she achieved perfect eye-contact with the author of the latest statement. ‘There’s nowt fancy about your dad,’ she said, ‘so I am going to speak as I find, because it’s too late to be nice. Your dad is one bastard. Right. Would you like me to go? Because I’ve an old man at home what needs me. If I can’t get clothes here, I shall try and borrow. I’m used to making do and mending. Us tenants get by, you know, because we have to. And I had to put up with your bloody dad.’ Good, she was angry again.

  Jeremy could not maintain his stance. There was something powerful, almost forbidding, about the intruder. She was nervous, that was plain, yet she retained a kind of dignity that did not match her clothing, her dyed hair and over-bright red lipstick. She was standing by what she said, was strong in mind and in limb. In fact, she reminded him of Great-Aunt Anna, though that seemed ridiculous, because Anna Chandler was a clean-living woman.

  Pol threw caution to the wind. ‘Mr Henry is sane. He has acted daft because he was daft at the start, but getting shoved upstairs made him go through hell. He needed the whisky and it got stopped just like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Then he started to fight. He knew that his chances of getting out alive were thin, so he clobbered everybody who came near. I know he’s old, but he’s no dafter than the next eighty-year-old.’

  ‘He’s seventy-eight,’ offered Sally Foster.

  Pol gave her full attention to Jean. ‘He wants to come back here of his own accord and as master. He is master – you all know that. I don’t know how
Rich— how his son managed it, but he stole that old man’s rights. To get his mind and his rights back, Mr Henry needs clothes and shoes. Oh, and his shaving tackle. That’s why I am here.’

  Jean nodded and the scarf slipped.

  Pol saw the weal and lost her thread for the moment. So, the scene described by Henry was not borne of imagination or senility. ‘Where’s Mr Chandler?’ she asked boldly. Had the bad bugger done that to his wife?

  ‘In hospital,’ answered Jean.

  Pol gulped a mouthful of tea, wished that it could have been gin. ‘Right.’ She placed the almost empty cup in the saucer. ‘I don’t know what’s happened here and I don’t need to know. I’ve got no right to know. But there’s one thing I’m sure of. Unless Mr Henry is proved to be crackers, he will not come back to this house until he has his own key. So, do I get the clothes?’

  Jean nodded again, the movement almost imperceptible, her eyes straying towards Sally Foster. The latter turned and left the room.

  Peter spoke. ‘We have been kept away from our grandfather, Mrs Fishwick. I do know that he supposedly passed everything on to my father.’

  Pol put her head to one side. ‘I doubt the old man signed anything. We talked before I set out for here and he can’t remember any of that. But I’m sure of this much.’ Before continuing, she invested in a huge intake of oxygen. ‘Your dad is capable of forgery.’

  No-one replied.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Pol went on, ‘but Mr Chandler – Mr Richard Chandler – is drinking so heavy now that he is the crazy one.’ The silence remained painful and Pol struggled against the need to fill it; if she said too much, she might let old Henry down. She sat perfectly still while the two boys excused themselves and left the arena.

  ‘Very well,’ croaked Jean. ‘As you have no doubt noticed, we are in some disarray. Thank you for caring for my father-in-law. I shall visit him as soon as my health is improved.’

  ‘He won’t hurt you. But if he gets locked up again, it will kill him.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Sally Foster brought a small suitcase and handed it to Pol. The latter stood up, took the case and stared at the mistress of Chandlers Grange. ‘He wants hanging for that.’ She used her free hand to point towards Jean’s neck. ‘And if I get to him first, I shall be needing something to calm me down.’

  ‘There are many people in the queue,’ replied Jean.

  Pol sniffed. ‘Yes, but I’m the one with the frying pan. And I’m not frightened of using it, neither.’

  A slight smile visited Jean’s lips. ‘So I have heard from several sources.’

  ‘Aye, well, now you can believe the gossip, can’t you? Thanks for his clothes. I’ll get the doctor out to him once I’ve got him dressed.’ She marched off, her grip on the suitcase firm. It all wanted sorting out, and Pol knew that she was definitely the right man for the job.

  Outside, in air that was cleaner and fresher, she gathered herself together. Yes, she had been right to come here. Now she stood a chance of helping Henry to put things right. There was also a distinct possibility that Richard Chandler might be ousted for ever.

  She dragged herself to her full height and made for the woods. First, the old man needed a bath and a shave. After that, she would fetch the doctor; if necessary, she would fetch several, because Henry Chandler was as sane as was possible in a man of his age. But his son was not. Hospital? He wanted locking up in prison and the key throwing away. He wanted a better hiding than Derek had received, that was certain.

  Pol sneered as she entered the woods. Richard had cleared the last fence, had attacked his own household, was probably raging in a corner of some private nursing home. Well, he could stay there until hell’s flames claimed him. Consigning him to her past, Pol Fishwick strode towards a future that was unsure, yet safer without him in it.

  ‘I’m calling that part of it Times Square.’ Meredith used her spoon to chase a stubborn lump of demerara into the depths of her coffee.

  Josie, eternally humorous and lugubrious, snorted. ‘Times Square? In the middle of Bolton? Bolton is not exactly in the lead when it comes to decor. In fact, there are households up Deane Road still using donkey-stones. If you’re up to Red Cardinal polish on your doorstep, you are at the forefront of modernity. So how do we drag them into the twentieth century? Sell red doorstep paint?’

  ‘No.’ Meredith lifted the thick cup and sipped coffee through half an inch of froth. ‘We are paying for air,’ she grumbled. ‘I shall have non-frothy next time. Marie? Are you with us?’

  Marie, who had arrived late, was not attending to business; she was elsewhere, her gaze fastened to the window. She turned and looked at her three lunchtime companions. ‘Josie, can you and Aggie go outside for a minute? I have to talk to Meredith on her own. It’s all right, I won’t tell her you’re a serial axe-murderer, Aggie. She’ll find that out for herself when your case comes up.’

  Aggie saw the expression of pain in Marie’s eyes and dragged Josie to the door. ‘Don’t drink my coffee,’ she threw over her shoulder as she stepped onto the pavement.

  Meredith raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Well?’

  Marie, uncomfortable with her burden, had not known whether to say anything. But it was clear that this young woman knew nothing of her family’s recent problems. ‘Peter came to see us,’ she said carefully. ‘He has taken a shine to my family and—’

  ‘And particularly to you,’ Meredith quipped. ‘Sorry. Please go on.’

  Marie hesitated. ‘It isn’t nice, but I shall just come out with it. You haven’t heard from your mother?’

  ‘Er … she phoned me yesterday. Why?’ Alarm bells sounded and Meredith’s pulse quickened. ‘Yes, spit it out.’

  Marie told the sorry tale as quickly as she could, leaving out the ride to Rivington. ‘I think Peter likes my mam and dad and that he wanted to talk to them. Meredith? Are you all right?’

  The fury was huge. ‘Why didn’t he come to me?’

  ‘He did, but you had gone out and he didn’t want to leave a note. He felt it best that you learnt about this while you were with someone who could offer comfort. I know he would have preferred to tell you himself, but I couldn’t just sit here and talk about lighting shops and candle factories, could I? It didn’t seem right.’ Marie stretched a hand across the table and held the tense fingers of this new and valued friend. ‘If you need anything or anyone, come to my house. It’s number thirty-four Emblem Street and I come home from work at about half past five. You’ll like Mam and Dad.’

  ‘Thank you. I must go.’

  Marie glanced at her watch. ‘Yes, and I have to get back to work – so does Josie. Aggie will go with you if you like – she is doing an evening shift today.’

  Meredith retrieved her hand and stood up. ‘Thank you. I shall go alone. But tell the other two. If we are to work together, they need to know about these things.’

  ‘All right. I am so sorry.’ Marie sat and watched as Meredith left, waited for the other two girls, then went through the whole sorry business again. Sadder than she had ever been before, Marie Martindale returned to work. If any of these bloody lawyers got fresh today, she would be ready for them …

  No-one listened. They took his pulse, stared at him, scribbled notes on a sheet attached to the foot of the bed, forced him to drink endless glasses of water, changed the bed when it was wet with sweat and urine, stood and whispered in the doorway. He was not ill.

  ‘I am NOT ILL!’ he screamed endlessly, but these folk were selectively deaf, were not interested in his suffering. He was alone for much of the time, confined to a white cell, his only ornaments a picture of the Sacred Heart and a crucifix, its impaled figure bleeding red paint from hands, feet, head and side. She had put him with bloody papists, had done that deliberately, because she knew the contempt he felt for those millions of sad sheep who followed Rome blindly wherever it went.

  Then there was the food. Mashed potato in nasty brown gravy, bread with margarine wiped thinly ove
r its surface, porridge, milk, soup. This was hell. She had consigned him to hell.

  ‘Hello, Richard.’

  Ah, here stood Beddows, he who had plotted with the fragrant one. ‘Bugger off.’

  Dr Beddows sat in the single, hard-backed chair. ‘How are you feeling?’

  How was he feeling? ‘How would you feel if your wife locked you up in a convent? I feel wonderful.’

  ‘She did not lock you up. I and my colleague did. This is a place where alcoholism is dealt with. I chose it. Your sons wanted the police – and you deserved the police – but Jean disagreed. Had your children had their way, you would be in a prison cell. She saved you, so remember that.’

  Richard tried to sit up, failed, fell against the pillows, every cell in his body either burning or numb. He should not be here, should not be confined against his will. ‘I shall sue,’ he muttered.

  ‘You are certified,’ replied Michael Beddows. ‘Two doctors declared you unfit to be allowed out into the community. Your case will be under review in four weeks, so co-operate.’

  Four weeks? Four weeks in the company of rosary-rattling virgins and a priest who prayed over him? A whole month of water and lumpy mash? ‘When I get out of here, you will be dealt with. How dare you do this? Eh? Answer me.’

  ‘Because you are ill. And because, if you do not behave yourself, you will be dead within months. Most of all, because I have seen the results of your violence. Would you rather be tried for injuring Sally Foster? Do you want to go to jail as a sane man, sane but locked up? Better to grin and bear this, I assure you. With effort and a good following wind, you should be out of here in time for Christmas.’

  Richard seethed. It seemed that the whole of his circle had conspired against him – his wife, his children, the housekeeper, this bloody doctor. Men drank. That was a well-known fact – everybody drank. Even women drank these days. The fragrant one was not averse to a glass of wine. ‘You drink,’ he told the doctor. ‘When we come for bridge, you have a drink.’