Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  She walked through the stable yard, now just a storage dump, looked at buildings that had once housed Arab-Irish horseflesh. She strode through Chandler fields, climbed Chandler stiles, marched along Chandler footpaths. Angry little feet took angry little steps, her footfalls harder than usual. She was stamping on his face; more than that, so much more, she was treading none too softly on her own brief dream.

  When he got no response to his knocking, Jeremy Chandler opened the door and pushed it inward, but no more than an inch. Agnes was a fun girl, but she was not cheap and the entering of her bedroom would have constituted several steps too far. ‘Agnes?’

  ‘Jeremy?’

  He spun round and saw his sister behind him on the landing. ‘Ah, Merry.’

  ‘She’ll be stamping about outside,’ Meredith told him. ‘She’s been making herself pretty for you and now she is upset. Someone must have told her about Josie leaving and she has added two and two—’

  ‘And made seven. I guessed. Where will she be?’

  Meredith shrugged. ‘I went with her just once. She may have short legs, but she moves at a pace. I think she usually goes along the lanes and through the woods. Polly Fishwick’s cottage is empty and there’s a key under a plant pot, so she has a breather in there, then she comes back.’ She touched his arm. ‘Go after her, Jer. She is, without question, one of the most valuable people I have met so far. Marie is brilliant, Josie is …’ Once again, she raised her shoulders.

  ‘Is Josie,’ he finished for her. ‘And, until about half an hour ago, I truly had no idea about London.’

  ‘I know.’

  He ran taut fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t understand myself, Merry. One minute, she was just Aggie, then the next, she was … she was everything.’

  ‘Just Aggie is how she has always seen herself,’ replied Meredith. ‘At school, she was the Just Aggie who made everyone laugh; after school, she was the Just Aggie whose parents lived too close to the gem we see. Even a diamond can look cloudy if you don’t give it some attention.’

  ‘She’s a ruby,’ he said, his voice almost cracking. ‘If she were a gem, there would be fire in it.’

  Meredith laughed. ‘A true diamond carries many prisms and every colour in the world. Our Just Aggie is multi-faceted and that is what you saw, brother. Go after her.’

  For the first time in years, Jeremy Chandler kissed his sister. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered, ‘and well done, you – with the booze. It isn’t easy, is it?’

  ‘Nothing worthwhile is straightforward,’ she answered, ‘so go and get her. And tell her hello from me.’ As her brother walked away, Meredith dashed a tear from a cheek. She was a lucky girl; she owned two wonderful brothers and the chance of two excellent sisters-in-law.

  The hoar of early morning had not completely disappeared and Aggie found herself in a magical world of pale silver and white, branches stroked gently by an undecided sun, its rays bringing an eerie life to vegetation that was supposedly at rest for the winter.

  With her immediate anger almost dissipated, Aggie made her way towards Woodside Cottage. There she would rest for a while; there, she would try to deal with the deeper fury, the place inside that remained untended, her core, that central part of self where rationale was more effective than emotion. She was the weak sun; she had to shine uncertain light into her own soul, and she would – yes, she would survive. ‘His loss,’ she stated as she negotiated a path across some visible roots.

  She found the plant pot, raised it, felt for the key. When her fingers made no contact, she lifted the pot off the ground and used her eyes. Nothing. Polly had her own key and she did not come here often, so this was, indeed, a mystery. Then the noise began.

  Tucking herself in as tightly against the wall as she could manage, Aggie made her cautious way towards the front corner of the cottage. In the unkempt clearing that was supposed to be the front garden, a man sat on a tree stump, his back towards her. He was chopping logs into finer kindling and Aggie breathed a sigh of involuntary relief; it was not Mr Chandler. The moment of ease was followed immediately by another emotion – if Chandler had been here, his family could have been made aware of his location. ‘Knowledge is power,’ she whispered to herself.

  A hand touched her shoulder and she screamed automatically, but the brief sound coincided with the crack of axe on wood, so the man was not made aware of her presence. Slowly, Aggie turned her head. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she mouthed silently. ‘Somebody’s living here.’

  Jeremy pulled his prize back into the woods. When they were beyond earshot, he asked the obvious question. ‘Is it my father?’

  ‘No. Somebody younger and thinner, though I never saw his face. We should tell your mother and Polly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s your house and Polly’s home, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, of course it is. It’s also nearly Christmas, so let the man stay – he is probably out of work and in need of shelter. He is doing no harm, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ How could she mend herself now, with Jeremy in the way? She needed space, time, a few minutes to herself, but he had followed her. He had no right to follow her.

  ‘Time enough to shift him when the repairs begin in the spring – leave him be, Agnes.’

  ‘All right.’ She didn’t know where to look. ‘Perhaps we should let him have his Christmas in the warmth, whoever he is. Season of goodwill, after all.’

  They walked in silence for a minute or two, then he turned and pinned her against the breadth of an ancient oak. ‘You’ve been crying.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she insisted. ‘The cold makes my eyes water.’

  He had wanted to make a game of this, but he found that he could not upset her any further. ‘I didn’t know,’ he stated baldly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Josephine. Meredith announced it this morning at the meeting. Until then, I had absolutely no idea about her intentions. There was never anything between us.’

  She could still hear the man chopping his wood. A flake of purest white wandered lazily through the air and landed on her nose. ‘Snow,’ she said. ‘We had better get a move on. As for what you just said, I have no idea what you are talking about. Come on, hurry up before we get snowbound.’ She dodged under his stretched arm and galloped ahead.

  Jeremy blinked a couple of times, shook his head, then followed her. If Josie wasn’t the cause of Aggie’s mood change, what the hell was? He watched her skipping ahead, the pompoms on her silly knitted hat bouncing as she moved. From a distance, she looked like a child at play – was she bringing out the paternal side in him? Did he have a paternal side? If he had, it had surely not been learnt from his own father.

  He caught up with her at the gatehouse. ‘For a short person, you move fast,’ he panted.

  She stopped. ‘Do I? Well, remember that saying – good things arrive in small packages. I come from a family of short women on my mother’s side. And there’s another saying in my clan – poisons come in little packets, too.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘Yes, make sure you do, Jeremy Chandler. I may be short, but I am lethal.’

  He kissed her, suddenly finding her too irresistible, one little bundle of trouble in an over-sized duffel coat and a hideous hat.

  Oh, God, she would die in a minute, she really would, and it wouldn’t be from the cold. Her feet were off the floor and she was hanging from his neck, depending on him for support – and she shouldn’t, mustn’t.

  He set her down. ‘Hell’s bells,’ he exclaimed. ‘That is one hungry small girl.’ Then he kissed her again, because he had to.

  Aggie was trembling. When he finally released her, she gasped for air and said, ‘I thought I was her replacement.’

  ‘Never in a million years, Agnes. You are one alone. I can say in all honesty, I have never met anyone like you – oh, and I am starving. Shall we take lunch, Miss Turner?’

  She sniffed away her tears and answere
d, ‘Yes, Mr Chandler.’ And they walked home hand in hand.

  It was a ghastly way to live – to pretend to be alive. The owners of the house had removed all personal items, so Richard was blessed with just the essentials – somewhere to sit, an electric fire and a small TV set. Halliwell Road was a busy route into Bolton and there was scarcely a gap in the traffic all day.

  He poured yet more silver currency into a hungry electricity meter, found a glass, opened his Scotch and allowed himself a decent measure. Pork scratchings and crisps were all he had eaten since breakfast – he would have to find a fish and chip shop, he supposed. The rest of them – Father, Jean, her brats, Aunt Anna and the servants – would be enjoying true warmth, not this surface-scorching pair of elements whose heat never penetrated flesh and bone. He shivered and downed his drink in a single gulp.

  The door knocker rattled. Was that the vibrations from constant traffic? No, there it went again. He rose and opened the door.

  ‘Hello.’ She was about forty, with pocked skin and far too much make-up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come about the job in Weston’s window. On the card. Daily help. I’m Freda.’

  He held the door wide and she entered. He could smell cheap perfume over sweat. She reminded him of Pol – the old Pol, not the new one with her decent blouses, airs and graces. ‘Come in.’

  ‘I live next door,’ she said, ‘and I’m a widow with no ties. I used to be a carder at Swan Mills, only there’s not as much work in cotton as there was. What would you want doing?’

  ‘The usual,’ he replied, huddling once more over the fire.

  Uninvited, she sat opposite him. ‘For a start, you want to lift that fire out – there’s a proper fireplace behind and you can get coal delivered. They don’t breathe, do they? Electric fires, I mean. I think there’s still a back boiler, too, for your water. I can do plain meals and cleaning, your washing and ironing if you want – and I’ll be handy if you’re stuck, being next door and all.’

  ‘When can you start?’

  Momentarily nonplussed, she hesitated. ‘Well, now if you want.’

  ‘I moved in just today,’ he said carefully. ‘I shan’t be here long, just until a bit of business is concluded. To save you cooking now, why don’t you run out and find some fish and chips for both of us? I’ll pay.’

  ‘All right, whatever you want.’ She took the money. ‘Salt and vinegar?’

  ‘Please.’

  When she had left, he felt better. With a woman next door and a pub across the road, he would be all right for a few weeks – for however long it took. He didn’t even know what ‘it’ was, but he had some time now, time to think, to decide on their punishment. He poured another drink. ‘Good health, Jean,’ he mouthed, ‘enjoy it while you can.’

  The woman – Freda – would make his fire each morning, would wash his clothes and produce his meals. In every storm, there came a port, he told himself. But he would make damned sure that Jean’s boat was shipwrecked; only then would he be able to rest in peace after the heart attack that now appeared inevitable.

  She came back with a newspaper parcel and dashed into the kitchen. ‘I shall want a key,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘you can’t leave your door on the latch all the while. You could at one time. Oh, aye – back in the good old days we never locked up.’ A bleached head appeared in the doorway. ‘Have you got any bread and butter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll buy some in the morning. Don’t worry, love, I’ll look after you.’

  She was a noisy eater, one who talked with her mouth full, who ate with it wide, dentures clicking as her jaw moved. Yes, she would do. Women like this asked few questions and were grateful for a few shillings. Unlike some …

  THIRTEEN

  Anna Chandler was up to her armpits in paperwork.

  There was all the ancient stuff, ink-blotted copybooks filled with writing illegible enough for any medical consultant, accounts and journals produced by the drunk and the dastardly; there were line drawings of the old factory, architectural plans, recipes for wax components, instructions on the various methods for coating wicks; and, into all of the above, she was trying to weave the history of her village and of her family.

  She threw down her pen. Why the hell was she bothering? The closer she looked, the more certain she became that she was the product of villains. And another villain was out there somewhere, mind addled by drink, murder in his heart – if he owned a heart, that was.

  Then there was the modern stuff. The bank had expressed willingness to jump into bed with the Chandler family, but there remained much to be done. There were two units available at a very low rent, slightly off the beaten track near the bottom of Chorley Old Road. She grinned mischievously. At least the candle factory would be practically on top of the fire station.

  And Meredith had come up with the most brilliant idea for a miniature Tussaud’s: famous people made from wax and displayed in the upper storey of the shop. The debate that currently raged was whether or not those figures would contain wicks, because it would seem eminently disrespectful to set fire to the Queen at the dinner table. Lighting up Jack the Ripper might be an acceptable activity, but the less notorious figures from British history would definitely be wick-free if Anna got her way. And Anna always got her way …

  Aggie came in with morning coffee, plonked it on the desk and stood next to Anna. ‘I can’t cope,’ she pronounced. ‘It’s had its stitches out now and it’s all over the place. And it likes me. They always like me. I used to think it was because of the fish and chips, but—’ The rest of her sentence was lost when Hero bounded in. ‘Bugger,’ cursed Aggie under her breath. This animal was a disaster on four legs and she was his repeated victim, a martyr to his whims and fancies.

  The dog leapt on Aggie and she staggered back. ‘It’s eaten six sausages, best pork,’ she said mournfully when the dog finally lost the keenest edge of its interest. ‘And it’s been trifling with my trifle when my back was turned.’

  Anna loved Aggie. She recognized character when she saw it, felt that she was looking at a mirror image of herself. This was Jeremy’s chosen one and Jeremy’s taste was to be admired. ‘Dogs love good people,’ said Anna. ‘If dogs like you, that proves your value.’

  ‘I think I’d sooner be cut price in the January sale,’ moaned the small girl. ‘Can I not get revalued? Should we get a surveyor out? I might have radical faults in my foundations.’ This sentence was directed at the dog. ‘I’ll have to be underpinned and it’s all your fault, Hero,’ she further advised him.

  The dog panted in front of the fire. He was happy at last, history forgotten, future promising, an audience that participated in his lunacy and enough grub to satisfy even the most desperate hunger. Having just discovered double cream, he was begging for more, and Aggie, for all her protestations and tellings-off, loved him best of all. He did not belong to Peter or Jeremy, though he liked them well enough. No, this little girl was his, lock, stockpot and biscuit barrel.

  ‘You love him,’ laughed Anna, ‘and he knows it. Look at him.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ snorted Aggie, ‘he’s wrong.’ But she felt the twinkle in her own eye when she looked at the crazy creature. Hero was all wrong. He could not have been more wrong – thin legs, stringy tail and ears that seemed incapable of decision-making, one folded over like an envelope, the other a guardsman on parade, standing at full attention and never at ease. She, too, had been all wrong; she was losing weight and this unfortunate canine needed to gain some. They would both come good – she was determined on that score.

  ‘He is devoted to you,’ said Anna.

  ‘Devoted to dinners, more like. I can’t put anything down – if he thinks it’s mine, he thinks it’s his by default. Better keep an eye on Jeremy, make sure he’s not disappearing bit by bit.’ She cast an eye over the disordered desk. ‘Have you had an accident?’

  ‘Just an accident of birth,’ replied Anna. ‘I am up to Oliver Cromwell.’ />
  ‘Which side were your lot on?’

  ‘The side with the most barrels of barley wine, I should think.’ Anna threw down yet another sheaf of papers and they slid stupidly all over the blotter. ‘Leave them,’ she advised. ‘They’ll find their own level, just as the Chandlers did.’

  ‘On the floor?’ Aggie bent and rescued an escaping page.

  Anna laughed. ‘Yes, on the floor, wrapped around a lamp post – wherever they fell, they stayed. And we have to pick ourselves up, Aggie, before we, too, end up with nothing to show for all the years we have been here. Wasted lives,’ she mused quietly, ‘are a sin. Which is why you must answer your calling and go to college. Just don’t go too far – Jeremy would fade away without you.’

  Aggie felt colour rising in her cheeks. Jeremy was the consummate gentleman – she was the one who was having difficulty with the situation. The urge to travel in the night was strong – three doors down on the left, he slept, and she wanted, needed, to go to him. It was all right for Marie – she had a couple of fields between herself and Peter.

  ‘When you look at these papers and see that we were original burgesses, we are an absolute disgrace.’

  Aggie composed herself. ‘So you were here in the thirteenth century?’

  ‘We most certainly were – anno regni regis Henrici filii regis Johannis, 14th of January, 1253,’ she read aloud. ‘Yes, granted by William de Ferraris, Earl of Derby, and obtained from the king. Chandlers were here before the charter, Aggie, but tracing beyond that gets hard.’

  ‘It does,’ giggled Aggie. ‘I can trace our chippies back to Deane Road, 1947, but no further. I don’t think we did chips in King Henry’s day.’

  The old lady had skipped into one of her pensive phases again. ‘Make the most of your life and marry the man you love,’ she instructed before picking up more papers.

  Aggie heard the sadness. ‘I will. And we’ll always be here for you and for Jeremy’s mam and grandad.’