Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ah.’ She folded her arms and studied Peter. ‘I suppose he causes a fair amount of trouble in the house?’

  ‘Some, yes.’ Trouble? The woman didn’t know the half of it. ‘I was afraid of him until recently. Our sister is not afraid.’ His sister was a drinker … ‘And I have to say that we don’t want him back.’

  ‘God bless, I shall pray for you. It’s a terrible thing when they take to the drink. My own father died of it, which is why I chose to work here for my sins.’

  ‘We have a long history of alcoholism,’ Peter told her. ‘It crops up in every generation. My great-aunt is writing the history of our family, and many of the documents she works with are hard to read because the writer was drunk. It goes back centuries. We call it Chandlers’ Curse, as if it is a disease all on its own, as if my ancestors invented it.’

  ‘Terrible.’ She loosened her hands and touched Peter’s shoulders. ‘You will have some hard days ahead, but I must warn you – his body is breaking down beneath the weight of it all. Usually, after a month or two, we manage to get a little sense into them. That doesn’t mean a cure, but there’s a bit of effort, at least. Your father has had scarcely a word to say for himself since he arrived. His liver is in a mess. I heard him crying once, after Mrs Fishwick came to visit, but he recovered sure enough.’

  ‘He would be crying for himself,’ said Peter.

  Richard arrived. He carried no case of clothes, as he had brought nothing with him and had been dressed during his stay in garments issued by the clinic. His face was expressionless, his colour poor.

  For a brief beat of time, Peter was back to his old self, a boy who had been so afraid that he might have needed to stand behind his gun-toting twin in order to go against this old man. Because Richard, at forty-five, was certainly old. There was a greyness about him, a lack of colour that rendered him almost corpse-like, while sloping shoulders spoke of inner hopelessness – but he had brought that upon himself, Peter insisted inwardly.

  ‘Can we get out of here?’ Richard’s tone was harsh.

  Peter stood up. In a voice loud enough to be heard the length and breadth of the nursing home, he spoke to his father for the first time in over two months. ‘Raise a hand to my mother and you will bear the consequences.’ The words were separated for emphasis. ‘We all know what you did and there is a letter from the deceased. One foot out of step and you will be dealt with.’ With the ultimatum delivered, Peter, not caring about the opinion of his small audience, turned and marched outside.

  Richard Chandler stood still for a few seconds. Although his heartbeat had quickened, his exterior registered no reaction to words that still seemed to bounce off the walls, even though their deliverer had absented himself. So, blackmail was to be a part of their campaign. Who would listen now, with Sally Foster gone to her Maker several weeks ago?

  Looking neither left nor right, Richard followed his son into the crisp air of mid-December. He had to play the game – for now, at least.

  ‘Eeh, well.’ Leena Martindale pulled open her door until it was against the wall. ‘I’ve seen some sights, but this beats them all. Come in, Meredith. Alf’s out – he would have enjoyed this. He used to bring his ponies home when he had the carts, but we’ve never had a proper horse parked at our front door before. What’s his name?’

  ‘Pepper,’ replied Meredith. ‘And he’s a mare.’

  Leena laughed. ‘Sorry, I only saw the front end. Can I give her a couple of carrots?’

  ‘Of course.’ Meredith gazed around the hall. ‘You have done an excellent job. Miss Forrester was very frail – I used to visit her two or three times a week – and the village did what it could, but you have made such a difference. And I see some of the paintings Mother has been speaking about.’

  Colour arrived in Leena’s cheeks. It was Alf who insisted on covering the walls in her work. There was not one piece here that satisfied Leena – there was always something she could have done differently, better. ‘I’ve not had any real lessons.’

  Meredith was studying a portrait of Marie. ‘Did she sit for you?’

  ‘No. I did her from memory.’

  ‘And put her on a mountainside.’

  ‘Well – yes. That’s how I like to think of her – on her way to the top of the world.’

  Meredith remembered reading somewhere that one should never underestimate the gifted amateur, because he owned the enthusiasm often denied to a professional. ‘You are good,’ she stated.

  Leena dashed off, found carrots and brought them out to Pepper. ‘I love animals,’ she told her visitor. ‘We thought we might get some now that we’re living out of the town. There’s room in the back for a couple of horses.’

  ‘Do you miss Bolton?’

  Honesty was best. ‘Yes, I do. It takes a fair amount of getting used to, does the quiet. I miss the neighbours, hanging me washing out when the weather was good enough. I miss a lot of things. But when you’ve been as ill as I have, you have to do as you’re told.’

  Meredith knew what she meant. Mrs Martindale had to stay away from dirt and Meredith had to stay away from drink. ‘Is Marie living here?’

  ‘Aye, she is for now. She says she’ll stop till after Christmas and New Year – her dad drives her to work and brings her home every night. And with us still renting Emblem Street, he can go there when he likes, make himself a cuppa. Marie’s friend’s supposed to be moving in about the middle of January.’ She stroked the horse’s nose. ‘This one has a nice, soft mouth. I bet she’s easy to ride, placid nature.’

  ‘Older children learn on her. Yes, Pepper’s a treasure. Never a dirty look, let alone a kick.’

  They walked into the kitchen and Leena busied herself with kettle and teapot.

  ‘Has Marie told you how we met?’ asked Meredith. ‘About starting a business of some kind?’

  Leena nodded. ‘She said something about it, yes. But I think she’s been too busy with other things – like your brother for a start. Then there was the move – we’re still not straight and Christmas is just around the corner. Ooh, that reminds me – tell Aggie I’ve done a couple of extra puddings and a spare cake.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  While Leena made tea, Meredith looked around the large kitchen. There was a dining area with French windows and a new cooker. There were many cupboards and shelves, a refrigerator and a dozen cookery books. ‘Cosy,’ was her conclusion. ‘You’ve made it very welcoming.’

  Leena smiled and placed cups and saucers on the table. ‘It is a welcoming house. It’s as if she’s here and she likes us. Does that sound daft?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After this blunt response, both women laughed.

  ‘But there is another level,’ Meredith said when the mirth had run its course. ‘I don’t know about God and all that stuff, but there’s an energy in us that stays around after we are gone. After my grandmother died, I used to see her at the foot of my bed, smiling at me.’

  ‘Your mother’s mother?’

  ‘Yes. I never knew whether I was asleep or awake, but she made me feel so much better. And … well … people like you, with talent – that’s tied up in it. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Join the club.’ Leena poured the tea. ‘My Alf says I’m the only woman he knows who can talk for an hour solid without knowing a thing about the subject.’

  Meredith stirred her tea. She realized that she had to get her mental teeth into something and that her brothers, too, needed a sense of direction. They had qualifications enough to enter university, but the time for that had passed – they were not academics and had grown beyond the student stage. Everyone was ready for a challenge. ‘We used to make candles.’

  ‘I know. There’s what’s left of the old factory not far from the grange – me and Alf walked up there last Saturday.’

  ‘And our great-aunt is writing an account of our family and its business.’ She grinned wryly. ‘Knowing Aunt Anna, it will not mak
e pretty reading. She has been working on a way of softening beeswax while retaining the natural pattern left in the hive, then curling the sheet into a candle. Anyway, we may start to manufacture again. And I should like to sell your paintings.’

  Leena gulped audibly. ‘Oh.’

  ‘The boys will be in charge of the factory – if and when we get it going – and I shall run a retail outlet. I’ve had all sorts of ideas, but simple is best, I think. Candles are back in fashion, and I want to sell things that will make people happy – fabrics, cushions, paintings and ornaments.’ Yes, this was the answer – if she became involved, if she became responsible for other people, surely she would stay away from the sherry? Wouldn’t she?

  Leena smiled. ‘Well, I shall be busy – a paintbrush in one hand and a rolling pin in the other. Mrs Chandler wants me up yonder three mornings a week till Aggie gets into her stride.’

  It was Meredith’s turn to grin. ‘Into her stride? She’s over-taken all of us. It took her three days to master choux pastry and the whole house knew about it. Aggie wears her feelings on the outside. She has Grandpa in pleats – and she can wrap him round her little finger. Mother calls her a gem. Yes, she even makes my mother laugh.’

  Leena stirred her tea before going for a change of subject. ‘Are your brother and my daughter serious?’

  ‘You should ask Marie, surely?’

  ‘I have. She says nothing much, though she did promise I’d be the third to know, because she hasn’t told herself yet – which means she hasn’t told him. He’d be the second.’

  Meredith chewed on a digestive biscuit. ‘He’s serious.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Yes. I’d say he’s head over heels, but that’s just my opinion. Peter never does anything by halves, though he has changed. We’ve all changed since Nanny Foster died. He was the quiet one, but there’s an anger in him these days. And I don’t mean to say that Marie is part of the anger, yet she’s part of what he has become. I think they could both do a lot worse. Jeremy’s a bit out of it – Josie isn’t from the same batch as Marie. So they have to stop being twins and start being individuals. Sorry, I do go on, don’t I?’

  ‘Don’t we all.’ Leena glanced at the clock. ‘He’ll be nearly home.’ There was no need for her to mention the name. ‘You should be there, love. For your mam.’

  ‘I know. When I’ve taken Pepper back, I shall go home. I have the distinct feeling that Father’s life will be somewhat restricted from now on. We have been turned into an army – for defence purposes only, of course.’

  Leena, whose name was on the list of reserves, dipped a ginger nut into her tea. Meredith, delighted, did the same. ‘It’s lovely to be able to dunk. I shall know where to come to show off my manners, Mrs Martindale.’

  ‘Manners is for dinner parties and Buckingham Palace.’ It was strange how so many of the small pleasures in life were forbidden by gentry. ‘Is she putting him in your grandad’s old room?’

  Meredith nodded. ‘Yes, but without the lock. I’m hoping we won’t need locks. It shouldn’t take long for him to realize that he’s in Coventry. There are two rooms, one with a small table and a single chair – Aunt Anna’s idea. He will be served meals up there.’

  ‘Aye, but who’ll take them up to him? Have you got one of them old suits of armour hanging about? And what if he comes to the table?’

  Meredith raised her shoulders in a slight shrug. ‘I think he will soon learn that he is not welcome in the dining room. And there is no longer a tantalus in there – Mother intends to serve just water and coffee with meals.’ Even the sherry had disappeared, which was just as well …

  ‘So that will keep him upstairs?’

  ‘We shall see.’ Meredith rose to her feet and Leena noticed how graceful she was, how elegant. She wasn’t as pretty as Marie – no-one was – but she was certainly noticeable. ‘What about your own love life?’

  ‘I haven’t met anyone good enough.’

  They moved into the hall. ‘Come again,’ said Leena.

  ‘I shall. I know where I can soak my biscuits in tea now. Also, you don’t appear to mind having a horse parked at the door.’

  They went outside and Meredith mounted Pepper by standing on a crumbling brick wall. Marie’s mother didn’t know it, but she had gone a long way towards helping Meredith this morning. There was somewhere to come, a place of refuge with tea and biscuits and just the right amount of sympathy.

  ‘Come soon to the grange,’ Meredith begged. ‘Mother is going to need a friend.’

  ‘I will.’

  When the door was closed, Leena allowed herself to sag against it. She had deliberately kept her mind locked, had not even thought about what Marie had told her. Please God, this poor girl was coming out of her brief flirtation with alcohol. Peter had told Marie and Marie had told her mother. It was important that no-one should offer Meredith anything but tea and coffee. ‘God guide her,’ she whispered before returning to her kitchen. So far, the country had proved quiet, but far from boring …

  The car hit the dog on a blind bend just over Turner Brew. Immediately, Jeremy slammed on the brakes and slewed the car almost onto the pavement, its nose half an inch from a postbox.

  ‘Jesus,’ cursed Richard. ‘What do you think you’re doing? This is a valuable car. Drive on. It’s only a bloody dog.’

  Peter leapt from the car. Bloody was the word. He ripped off his jacket and stretched it over the thin, twitching body. Jeremy, who had the foresight to bring the keys so that his father could not drive away, joined his brother. Together, they lifted the dog and carried it to the car.

  Richard was on the pavement. ‘You are not putting that thing into my Bentley.’

  ‘Just watch us,’ answered Jeremy. ‘You can get back in and shut up, or you can walk the rest of the way.’ They were at least five miles from home. While Jeremy cradled the injured beast, Peter opened a rear door, climbed into the car, then held his arms out to receive the patient.

  Jeremy closed the door, then addressed his father. ‘Get into the passenger seat. Now. You know the alternative.’

  Furious, Richard climbed into a car that had cost five times the yearly wage of most ordinary people. He had scarcely closed his door when Jeremy crashed into gear and lurched forward, one hand on the horn, which he sounded intermittently. At a speed that might have attracted the whole body of the Bolton Constabulary, Jeremy Chandler hurtled towards the vet at the junction of Tonge Moor Road and Crompton Way. ‘You’ll have us all dead,’ cursed Richard, ‘and all for some bloody mongrel.’

  ‘Shut up,’ yelled Jeremy. ‘That dog is worth ten of you – and that is a gross underestimation of its value. You are no longer the driver – you are a mere passenger and don’t ever forget it.’ He slammed on the brakes, removed the key from the ignition and jumped out, rushing immediately to open the rear door for his brother.

  Together, they carried the unconscious animal into the surgery.

  Alone, Richard seethed. He remembered the occasions when he had taken the belt to his sons, when he had tried to whip some sense into their stupid backsides. Well, it hadn’t worked, because they were both hell bent on saving some scrawny animal when they should have been taking their father home. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do.

  He rooted about in a pocket, found his wallet, opened it. The list of Alcoholics Anonymous meeting places fell out and he allowed it to remain on the floor where it belonged. Ah, he had four pounds and ten shillings. After glancing towards the vet’s surgery, he made a run for it and entered the off-licence next door, buying two half-bottles, as they were easier to conceal; he also picked up some strong mints and a bar of chocolate. The food in that bloody dump had been unfit for pigs.

  The first dose dropped into his stomach like rain onto parched ground and he sighed contentedly before taking a second, then a third mouthful. That was better. Tonge Moor Road looked rosier – the whole world was brighter. Feeling more contentment than he had enjoyed in weeks, Richard lea
ned back and closed his eyes. They could take as long as they liked in the vet’s place – all was well inside the Bentley.

  Jeremy returned alone, recognizing the stench of whisky as soon as he opened the door. It had begun already.

  Richard opened one eye. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘Doing his duty,’ came the swift response. The dog was on the operating table already, internal bleeding diagnosed, no broken bones found thus far. And Peter had refused to abandon the needy creature.

  ‘Stupid,’ snapped Richard.

  Peter’s twin turned his head slowly and faced the evil man who had fathered him. ‘I hate you.’ There was no expression in these three words; they were delivered flatly, evenly, and were made all the more dreadful by the sheer absence of emotion. ‘Already, you are drinking. That is fine by me. You will live upstairs in the rooms where you kept my grandfather. You will take your meals there and will be provided with enough booze to kill you as quickly as possible. When your time comes, Peter will not pick you up and take you to a vet, will not carry you to a doctor or back to the place you left today.’

  Richard swallowed audibly.

  ‘There will be whisky upstairs, but nothing on the ground floor. Your confinement will be of your own choosing. If you do come downstairs, any nonsense and Peter and I will beat you as you beat us. Understood?’ The man’s lock would be the whisky. ‘Touch Mother or anyone else and Sally Foster’s letter goes to the police.’

  ‘How dare you?’

  Jeremy smiled broadly. ‘How dare I? How dare we? Peter and I have suffered abuse from you since we were about twelve or thirteen. Meredith’s gender saved her, though she still felt the edge of your tongue. But you have dulled the edge, have failed to keep it sharpened. It is our turn now. We become the abusers, but we focus on you, just you.’

  Richard blinked rapidly as the car pulled into the traffic. If the wretched boy had not been driving, he would have taken a swipe at him. God, the future looked bleak – even the whisky could not dull the pain of realizing that the fragrant one had armed herself to the point where even his own sons might turn on him. Then there was Pol. And Anna was home. And the Martindales … God, he needed another whisky, but he would not drink while this stuffed shirt was at the wheel. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’