Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  Leena handed the puddings to Polly, glanced upwards, saw a figure crouched where the stairs curved. Aye, he was here, the lord and bloody master, as Alf called him. She shivered, the involuntary shudder causing Pol to guide her towards the warmth of the kitchen.

  Leena looked at the dough and rolled up her sleeves. ‘Put that kettle on, Aggie,’ she ordered. ‘Let’s see what we can do to save some of this.’

  The front door slammed and all the occupants of the room jumped. Leena smiled grimly – she wasn’t the only one on tenterhooks, it seemed. ‘If this is the sort of mess Aggie’s making, you’d all be safer coming to me for Christmas.’

  Yes, they would be safer out of the grange. But it wasn’t Christmas yet, and Leena wondered what the man might perpetrate before the holidays arrived. She dealt with the dough and kept her thoughts to herself.

  ‘She doesn’t want me.’ Jeremy’s tone was grim. ‘I know she’s a looker and I know she’s good fun, but Josie’s not interested in me.’

  Peter, who was wondering about veterinary science, about Hero, about Marie, about his father’s being back in the house for the first time in weeks, came to a halt at the Crompton Way traffic lights. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Josie,’ replied Jeremy. ‘She’s a no-go area. She’s never unpleasant, but I get the feeling that she’s not exactly head over heels with me.’

  Peter put the car into gear and edged forward as the amber light showed. ‘She treats everyone the same, Jer. I don’t know what it is about her, but it’s as if she’s complete in herself.’

  ‘Like a hermaphrodite?’

  ‘No. Like a selfish person.’

  Jeremy nodded. It wasn’t that she was impolite, and she showed a degree of concern for those around her, yet there was something missing, something vital that seemed to have been excluded from her genes. ‘She wants to get away from her family, just as Aggie did, yet there’s very little enthusiasm for anything at all. She seemed keen when we first talked about a business, but she’s gone off the boil.’

  ‘She may warm up when things start moving.’

  ‘Whole thing went off the boil,’ grumbled Jeremy. ‘Poor old Nanny Foster, Father, then Meredith and her little problem. The whole world seems to have conspired against us. There’s no fun any more.’

  Peter did not agree. Things were bad at home, but Aggie and Polly had brought life into the house, Mother was looking a little better, Meredith was on the mend. If only Father were off the scene, life would be wonderful. Then there was Marie. He found himself smiling and he rearranged his features as quickly as he could manage. ‘We have a dog,’ he announced. ‘I said we would keep him. And I am considering university after all – veterinary science.’

  Jeremy shifted in the passenger seat. So, Peter was sorting out his life, was he? It had always been the other way round – Jeremy at the front, Peter bringing up the rear. Marie had made this happen. Before Marie, Peter had been less confident. ‘Well, I hope you get whatever you want,’ he replied eventually. This was all the result of the love of a good woman.

  ‘Josie is focused,’ announced Peter after giving the matter further consideration. ‘I don’t know what she’s focused on, but she is going somewhere. And until she gets there, she won’t be ready. And she won’t get there until she decides what it is and where it is. So selfish is wrong. I think she’s ambitious.’

  Jeremy was having difficulty in understanding his newborn twin. It was almost as if the old Peter had disappeared, to be replaced by the quiet yet confident young man in the driving seat. Yes, Peter was behind the wheel now and the love of Marie had equipped him for the position.

  The car swung through the gates and past Aunt Anna’s abandoned house. They were home. Home? Home was where the heart should be; home was where Father would be taking up residence again. Never mind, Jeremy told his inner self. There was always Aggie to cheer him and take his mind off the worst of things.

  One of those strange moments of telepathy happened as Peter slewed to a halt on the gravel path. ‘You could do a lot worse.’

  ‘What?’

  Peter turned off the engine and handed the keys to Jeremy. ‘Your turn to drive the old man’s jalopy next time, old thing.’ He got out of the car and waited for his brother. ‘Yes, a lot worse,’ he repeated to himself.

  Jeremy emerged on the opposite side of the car. ‘Worse than what?’ He knew the answer, knew full well what was coming. There was a special contact between himself and Peter—

  ‘Than Aggie. She has dressed herself up for you, Jer. She has straightened her hair and straightened your life at the same time. And she is the one who is head over heels with you. Also, when you look at her properly, she is quite pretty.’

  Jeremy lingered at the bottom of the steps. What a pre-posterous idea. Aggie, the also-ran, the clown, the little butterball who made everyone laugh, who had culinary disasters on a regular basis. Little Aggie, thinner now, looking taller, looking … looking like fun.

  ‘She worships you,’ said Peter softly. ‘She tries to hide it, but when you come into the kitchen, she changes, stands straighter. There is more to Aggie than beauty, Jer, because she has a heart of solid gold, twenty-four full carats and all the softer for it. Josie – Josie is just Josie. I don’t know who will get through to her – I wonder if anyone ever will. Aggie’s the one, believe me.’

  Richard Chandler appeared, his face purple with anger as he slammed closed the front door of the grange. ‘Keys,’ he snapped.

  Jeremy looked his father up and down. ‘You are not fit to drive.’

  The man stumbled three steps past them and righted himself next to his car. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ he slurred.

  Peter shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he announced firmly. ‘If you want to kill yourself all well and good, but you are taking no-one with you.’

  ‘There are spare keys.’ Richard turned to go back inside, lost his footing and collapsed in a heap. ‘Damn and blast,’ he cursed.

  The twins stared at each other. ‘We could take a chance,’ Peter suggested, ‘let him loose and hope the village is deserted. Close contact with a dry stone wall could be the answer for him.’

  ‘And for us.’ Jeremy pushed the keys further into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Drag him in.’

  They led their father up the stone steps and deposited him in the hall. With no further comment, they abandoned him and went to find their mother. Richard Chandler was of no particular importance, so they left him where he fell.

  ‘So, you’re going, then? Have you told your mother?’

  Josie pushed a strand of hair from her eyes and studied her best friend. ‘Yes and no. Yes, I’m going and no, I haven’t told my mother. You are the only one who knows – apart from the agency.’

  Marie glanced through the window and watched Bolton as it walked past the café, mothers with prams, men in suits, a ragman and his cart, the latter fully laden, probably on its way to a refuse yard. There were still one or two rag-and-bone men who used ponies, she mused. ‘You’ll have to tell them, Josie. You can’t just disappear off the face of the earth – your mother would go into a decline and your auntie would have the army out looking for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And what about Jeremy?’ Marie awarded her full attention to the beautiful girl in the opposite seat. ‘He’s crazy about you.’

  ‘He has no particular reason to be. I’ve never given him cause.’

  ‘Love has nothing to do with reason.’

  Josie took a sip of hot chocolate.

  Marie folded her arms and leaned back in a chair that was rather less than comfortable. ‘London, though. Are you not frightened? Big city, bad men and all that?’

  Josie considered the question; it had never occurred to her that she should fear the man who had recruited her. She raised her shoulders slightly. ‘I have phoned the office and it’s a real agency. Anyway, there are plenty of jobs in London – I could temp for a while if this doesn’t come off.’

 
‘It’ll come off if they’ve any sense,’ said the loyal Marie. ‘You’re a walking coat hanger, Josie, and that’s what they’re looking for. We’ll be seeing you in all the Max Factor adverts, next news. I shall be able to say, “I knew her when the only leg she had to stand on was fifteen denier Sandalwood or American Tan.”’

  ‘They’re doing Mink now. A sort of greyish-brown for the older lady. Disgusting colour.’

  Marie sighed and stirred her coffee. She didn’t fancy living on her own in Emblem Street, but with Josie and Aggie both gone, it was beginning to seem that she wasn’t going to have a choice in the matter. And anyway, Claughton Cottage was nearer to Chandlers Grange, nearer to Peter—

  ‘You’re blushing,’ laughed Josie. She reached a hand across the table and grabbed Marie’s wrist. ‘I have to do it. If I don’t, I shall look back all my life and wonder why I didn’t take the chance. Sorry about letting you down, love, but it’s something I’m forced to do. Forgive me?’

  ‘Course I forgive you, you great lummox. But I shan’t forgive you if you don’t invite me when you’re settled in your Kensington flat with a cheetah and a bath with gold taps. Did you see that model with her cheetah on a lead? God, I’d be terrified.’

  Josie withdrew her hand. ‘I’m not ready to settle, you see. And I never wanted the ordinary life with a nice Bolton lad and nice Bolton kids. Jeremy is all right – he’s more than all right, he’s a catch – but if he can’t see what’s under his nose … well …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aggie, you daft beggar. Have you never watched her? Every time he opens his mouth, she sits up and listens. There’s a lot more to Aggie than fish and chips, Marie – she’s got a Latin O level, you know.’

  When the laughter had subsided, Marie considered Josie’s statement. ‘She’s always been left out with boys, hasn’t she? But look what she’s managed to do with herself – out in the country-side, learning to cook properly, new clothes, some weight off, hair done—’

  ‘And living with the man she loves.’ There was finality in Josie’s voice. ‘It’s not that I’m leaving her my crumbs, you know. I like him. I like him, but I’ve never wanted him, never needed him.’

  Marie lowered her head in thought, raised it again after a few seconds. ‘You don’t need anybody, do you? You just need you. I understand that.’

  Josie grinned. ‘It was all mapped out for me by the family, Marie. The tallest tree they’ve ever seen is management at Marks and Spencer. I want to go into the forest and choose my own timber. My mother’s the one who will be afraid. When she learns that I’m off to London to be a model, she’ll probably order a couple of chastity belts.’

  ‘Marks and Spencer, of course,’ quipped Marie.

  ‘No doubt.’ Josie inhaled deeply. ‘Tonight, I tell them. Tomorrow, I give in my notice. The day after, my mother will be walking the streets in sackcloth and ashes. We shall be a house in mourning. She’ll have Masses said and the priest will have to wear his purple vestments.’

  Marie nodded absently. The easiest thing would be to throw in her hat with Mam and Dad, move permanently to Claughton Cottage, see as much as she liked of Peter … But a part of her wanted something different. It wasn’t freedom, because her wings had never been clipped by her parents – she wanted independence and a degree of adulthood, bills to pay, meals to cook and … and Peter. She swallowed.

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ urged Josie. She could see that her friend’s brain had kicked into overdrive.

  But Marie had promised already that she would tell herself first, Peter second, Mam third. ‘There’s a queue,’ she replied after a short hesitation. ‘Get in that orderly line, Josie Maguire, and I’ll give you a shout when your number comes up.’

  ‘It’s your number that’s up.’ Josie laughed.

  ‘What do you mean by that? I’ve never won a raffle in my life.’

  Josie simply picked up her purse and pushed it deep into her handbag. If she wasn’t mistaken, she would be a bridesmaid before she left for London.

  ‘I ordered a bodyce peece for my wyfe.’ Anna mumbled these words, then threw down her pen. The spelling of her ancestors showed innovation, to say the least. Nathaniel Chandler 1785–1856, had been forced to order many ‘bodyce peeces’ for his ‘wyfe’, who had borne fourteen children, three of whom had survived. With every pregnancy, material was bought to let into that good woman’s clothing so that her increasing girth might be contained and concealed.

  This was hardly a labour of affection; Anna was falling further and further out of love with her own antecedents. Almost to a man, they had been drunken ne’er-do-wells who had impregnated their ‘wyves’ with monotonous frequency. ‘A testament to their persistence,’ she mumbled as she rolled yet another cigarette. As far as she understood, men in their cups were often unable to fulfil their husbandly duties.

  The accounts were tedious and all the more difficult to follow after a ‘barrelle of mulberrye wyne’ or a ‘vat of mead’ entered the table of calculation. Funerals were amusing. ‘Fathere’s coffine, beinge a lined caskette wyth sylke, 7 shillinges and 4 pense’; ‘clothes to mourne, 3 shillinges and 5 pense’. All these things were accounted for, right down to a set of new buttons for a servant and a dark ‘hand-kercheefe for my wyfe’.

  The candle part was interesting: the history, the methods, the materials. And another factor was that each of the early Chandlers had been involved directly with the land, some managing to run a farm as well as a ‘chandelrye’, many even accounting for their mistakes – ‘I planted too close in the rowes and did not yeeld as well as hytherto’ and ‘the feelds must wante to be fallowe for the seeson next’.

  She tried to conjure up pictures of her brother ploughing, of her nephew sowing the furrows, but even her fertile imagination was not sufficiently elastic to encompass such impossibilities. Richard was in the house; this was his first night home after the clinic. There had been a bit of business between him and his sons on the front steps, but Anna had kept out of that, as had the rest of the household. Jeremy and Peter – the latter particularly – could handle him. She nodded. Peter had matured in one huge leap and Jeremy had long been an adult, because he had protected his brother and sister during the worst of Richard’s rages.

  It was two a.m. Anna, who had sat up with her documents, knew that it was time for sleep. She was in a small study next to her brother’s room; she could hear his snores as they floated under the adjoining door and she hoped that Polly, who was ensconced in a room on the other side of Henry’s, was able to sleep through such a noise.

  After tidying a pile of ancient manuscripts, Anna rolled herself one last cigarette before bed. There was tension in her spine and she deliberately stretched herself out, placing her feet on a stool. Richard was here, and there was no getting rid of him. Henry had taken back his power, had disinherited his son in favour of his grandchildren, but the grange remained Richard’s home. And he was drinking …

  The snoring stopped. Relieved, Anna grinned to herself. Had snoring been a sport, her brother might have competed with the best. She took a drag of Virginia, blew a smoke ring, satisfied with her expertise. The blue-grey circle rose lazily upward, breaking only when it reached the unlit central chandelier. Anna reached across to switch off the desk lamp, then the noise began again.

  But there was a different quality to the sound that emerged from her brother’s bedroom. Frozen for a split second by pure fear, she managed to jump up when Henry screamed feebly. She hurled herself across the room and threw the door open. But she need not have worried.

  At the other side of the bed was an awesome sight – Polly Fishwick in full sail, a white cotton nightdress billowing about her as she raised Henry’s walking stick. ‘Bastard!’ she screamed at the top of lungs whose power was admirable. ‘He tried to smothercate him,’ she yelled at Anna. ‘He’d yon bloody cushion over his face – out, out!’ Like a mad shepherd, Polly drove Richard through another door and into the vast drawing room. �
�Go on, you fat ugly bugger, get out of me road before I fetch you one with this here stick.’

  Anna looked at her brother. He was not injured, but his weary, lined face seemed even older. ‘Follow her, Anna,’ he begged, ‘because I swear she’ll kill him.’ He sank back onto his pillow. ‘And if I had the strength, I would help her.’

  Anna shot out and pursued Polly into the hallway. Polly, her dark hair caught up in multicoloured curlers, had cornered Richard. Meanwhile, the rest of the household began to appear. Meredith, followed by Jean, then the twins and finally Aggie, wandered onto the stairs, each claiming a place from which the show could be watched.

  Polly towered over the cowering figure. ‘You are nowt a pound, you. I wouldn’t even expect a bloody goldfish or a slab of donkey-stone off Alf Martindale’s cart if I handed you in. You are less than rubbish, because rubbish gets weighed in and made into paper.’ The diatribe stopped, but only for a second. ‘Mind, if Miss Anna and young Miss Meredith are thinking of setting up in candles again, I reckon they’d get a fair amount of tallow out of you, you great fat lump.’

  He looked up at her. ‘You were grateful enough at one time,’ he whispered.

  ‘Grateful? Grateful? Bloody desperate more like.’ The large woman swung round, her nightgown standing out like a small tent before settling against ample curves. ‘He tried to kill his dad,’ she told the audience. ‘Tried to smothercate him with a cushion, he did. But I am a light sleeper these days, so I stopped him.’

  Jean blinked, decided that smothercate was a good word, decided further that this was not the time to be considering vocabulary. ‘You had better leave this house,’ she told her husband.