Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘He will not be involved,’ he repeated, more quietly now.

  Thus he had been dismissed by the woman who had married him, by the father who had sired him and by the daughter and sons who offered him no respect. He would not be dismissed. He refused to be a mere bystander while his family plotted against him. Oh, Jean had hidden her cleverness so well; here she was now in black and white for all the world to see, the mother of three Chandlers and the wife of no-one. This was to be his punishment.

  He must not rage. Rage brought the pain and the pain would be the death of him. How could a man so weakened defend himself? As a cheap clock marked the passing seconds, its sounds hollow and without purpose, he tried to pull together the remnants of his resolve. There was one last job to be done before he died: he would burgle his own home. He knew the old place’s weaknesses and its strengths and he would need no keys to gain entry. Was burglary enough?

  Paraffin was stored in the old stable block; the fabric of Chandlers Grange, most of it completed by the middle of the eighteenth century, was dry enough to burn like a November bonfire.

  Oh, yes, Richard Chandler would celebrate this Christmas in his own special way. He gazed around his small living room, looked at the tawdry little tinsel tree, so carefully and gaudily dressed by Freda. Next to it stood two Christmas cards, one from her to him, one from him to her. The paltry show hurt, because he remembered Christmas at the grange: a massive tree in the hall, log fires, mulled wine, carol singers at the door. Damn them, that was his home, his Christmas, his right.

  Freda would be disappointed. Lonely for many years, she was like an excited child, but it could not be helped. She would be here soon and he would tell her that he had received an invitation from old friends. He turned the newspaper over, hoped that she would not read it. Because from this moment, he would need to be extraordinarily careful. The whisky – well, he would manage on half a bottle a day for the time being. The clock ticked and he dozed while waiting for her to come. He would give her a bonus, an extra fiver for her trouble. His conscience salved, he slept the sleep of a man whose anger was just, whose rights would soon be asserted in one final coup.

  Christmas Day dawned bright and cold, just a thin frost reflecting the sun’s rays from lawn and evergreen foliage. Meredith yawned, stretched, pulled on her hooded dressing gown. She was beginning to feel clean and in charge of herself, was even managing not to worry about wines at the table, because she accepted the fact that she could never partake.

  A child again, she prepared to go downstairs for the opening of the presents. This always took place in the hall; gifts were stacked under the huge tree, a fire would burn bright in the grate. As she was probably the first up, she would have the privilege of lighting that fire; she had helped Aggie prepare it the night before.

  For a few moments, she lingered at her window and breathed in the beauty of this special day. She remembered last Christmas, overshadowed by Father and his excesses, Mother cowed and quiet, Sally holding together the remains of this family. Great-Aunt Anna had come for Christmas lunch and Grandfather had been locked upstairs. ‘Evil,’ she reminded herself. ‘Remember, he is evil.’ There was still a small corner of her soul that felt sympathy for her alcoholic parent, but she urged herself to stop thinking about him. He was gone and Mother was all the better for it.

  He was with a woman, or so Aggie had said. In his house, just four along from Turners’ Fish and Chips, he would be eating his festive meal with a peroxide blonde. ‘Why couldn’t you have been different?’ She dashed a disobedient tear from her cheek. ‘Why couldn’t you fight this? For the sake of your children, you should have overcome the demons.’

  A robin twittered and fussed in a nearby tree. Fierce little creatures, robins. They fought and died or they fought and survived – it was inbuilt, it was what they were. ‘Father is what he is.’ Should she have visited him with a gift and a kind word? No, it would not have done the slightest amount of good.

  She opened her door, closed it again quietly when she saw Aggie leaving Jeremy’s room. The whole household knew what was going on, of that Meredith was certain, but no-one seemed to mind. Mother had never seemed so relaxed, yet sometimes, when Meredith caught her off guard, she saw suffering in Jean Chandler’s eyes. The suffering must be remembered. There was a sense of waiting, as if the wonderful world now occupied by the Chandler family was temporary and precious, because he was still out there …

  Mother was already up and the hall fire was blazing healthily when Meredith greeted her. Aggie, yawning and happy, slid down the banisters. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Jean, ‘but I promised myself I would do that on Christmas Day.’ She went off to start breakfast, which would be served at the central table in the hall. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she threw over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  The family gathered, Aggie brought in steaming dishes containing eggs and bacon, the dog followed the food and got in everyone’s way. Meredith’s eyes peered over the rim of her coffee cup and took in the happy scene. It would be all right, wouldn’t it? He was on Halliwell Road; he would not walk in and spoil everything. Would he?

  Elsie Ramsden was in her element; she had spent her first ever Christmas Eve in the countryside and she was overawed by its beauty. ‘You know what, Leena, you never know what you’re missing in town, do you? Eeh, I know you’ve earned it, love, but you are so lucky. What a house, eh? We were cosy in that bedroom, me and Bert. Yes, it’s great.’

  Leena, struggling with a fifteen-pound turkey, basted the breast then placed it back in the oven. She had prepared the vegetables, and now all she had to do was make sure that everything was ready at the same time. ‘Synchronize,’ she muttered to herself.

  Elsie had rambled off and was exclaiming all over again at everything she saw in every room. ‘Leena?’ she called.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a man stood across from your front gate.’

  Leena Martindale’s heart skipped a beat. She dashed through to the room where Elsie stood, joined her at the window. It wasn’t him. ‘He’s messing with his motorbike, that’s all. Happen he’s broke down. Come on, Elsie, let’s have a cuppa before the gang arrives.’ God, when would they be free of Richard Chandler? Why did she think that every man seen in Chandlers Green was going to be him?

  She went back for another look and the man had gone. But Leena remained uneasy and she didn’t know why. Had the man outside been sent by Chandler? Was the motorbike chap a spy for Chandler? Oh, it was Christmas Day, time to forget all the mithering. Once the holiday was over, Jean would get him sorted out. She stood for a while, saw no-one, then went back to prepare a pot of tea for her guests.

  Outside Claughton Cottage, the man stepped further back into the trees. He had a nice hamper back at the cottage; he would go now and have something to eat. As far as he could make out, everyone and everything was as it should be. Nevertheless, he lingered awhile before returning to his borrowed cottage. It was Christmas Day and he deserved a rest.

  A compromise had been achieved. As Richard could not function in Chandlers Green during daylight hours, he and Freda had lunch together, then watched the Queen’s broadcast. They drank a toast to the monarch, Freda feeling worried when she saw how little Scotch Richard allowed in his glass.

  ‘I’m driving,’ was his explanation.

  Freda offered no answer; she had seen him driving in some terrible states, had even been a passenger while he had careered all over the road. Perhaps the friends he was going to visit disapproved of drink. ‘Where did you say you were going?’

  He hadn’t said. ‘Friends up Wigan Road,’ he replied, ‘people who have been helping me with the land disputes.’

  There was more to this than land disputes. Freda had read the Bolton Evening News article and she, too, had noted the words He will not be involved. She suspected that his so-called dispute was of a marital nature, which was why she had started to take slightly better care of her appearance. She and he got along well,
so, if he was going to be on the market in the foreseeable future, Freda would be putting in a bid.

  ‘I must go soon,’ he said, ‘but feel free to stay. At least this television set is working.’ For the first time in years, he actually had feelings for another person. Freda mattered. She was virtually his sole contact with the human race and he felt comfortable in her company. Freda was no raving beauty, but she accepted with equanimity her role in his life. She knew her place; she was one of his kind of people.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said as he pulled on his greatcoat. She passed him his trilby and was thrilled to pieces when he kissed her on the cheek. Blushing beneath layers of panstick whose purpose was to fill the indentations on her cheeks, she giggled like a girl. ‘Go on with you, you’ll be having my head turned.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Freda,’ he said. ‘You stay here for as long as you like.’

  She watched him as he drove away, then closed the door and skipped along to her own house next door. Having been invited to stay for as long as she liked, she was determined to make the most of the opportunity. The long-awaited chance having finally arrived, she was glad of her own foresight. Days earlier, she had bought a nice nylon nightie in pink with a matching peignoir. She would use his bathroom, would prepare herself for his return.

  Armed with talcum powder, soft towels and her new ensemble, Freda Pilkington returned to Richard’s house, poured herself another glass of wine and watched television for a while. She stoked the fire, made sure that there would be plenty of hot water, then enjoyed a leisurely soak in a proper bath.

  The man of her dreams would return in a few hours and she would be ready for him, as would his whisky. And she had every intention of keeping the home fire burning until he was back where he belonged.

  FIFTEEN

  He circled the village and came in from the north, avoiding Claughton Cottage completely. Although it was dark, he feared being seen and, on Christmas Day, few cars were out on the road, so the sound of his noisy engine might have attracted unwanted attention. It was half past four. If Chandler tradition held, albeit in a different location, the main Christmas meal would be served at about five, so he had plenty of time.

  When the car was tucked away in a small lay-by, he walked quietly through the place in which he had been born, the village created by his forebears, the very seat of the Chandlers. With the digits of one hand curled round the bottle of life-saving tablets in his pocket, he made deliberately slow progress round the edge of the Chandler estate, pausing occasionally for a much-needed rest. The threatened heart attack, the event his family probably awaited, must not happen tonight.

  He arrived at the back of Alf Martindale’s house. Through a small gap in the neglected hedge, he could watch two rooms, the kitchen and the dining room. In the former, he saw Peter, knew that it was Peter because the Martindale girl was hanging round his neck like a medal on a chain. Jeremy entered, a silly paper hat on his head; in hot pursuit was the little red-haired house-keeper. She was blowing a whistle from which a tube of paper emerged, a coloured feather on its end. ‘And a good time was had by all,’ he muttered.

  The rest of them were in the dining room, his father dozing in a wheelchair, the rest laughing, drinking, preparing to eat. Anna and Jean were pulling a cracker; Martindale sat at the head of the party, a bright green crêpe-paper hat crammed onto his thick skull. ‘Softly,’ Richard murmured. The white tablets could do so much and no more; there was a limit to the number he could take in one day. ‘Easy, now.’ He remembered his horses and how he had talked to them – ‘Easy, now,’ he would say to a wayward stallion.

  It was time to go. And he must take with him this mind-picture, this memory of his family’s final betrayal. They were breaking bread with the man he loathed most; one of his sons was about to marry the daughter of that same man. They had plotted and planned, had probably worked for months to make his life as miserable as possible. He had been tidied away into a clinic so that these traitors would have time to plot his demise.

  Had his resolve required any underpinning, it would have received it now, in this moment. He was on the outside looking in; where Richard had once sat as master, Alf Martindale luxuriated in happy company, in a warm house, surrounded by good food. This very house had been built three or four generations ago, a manager’s home produced by Chandler money for the Chandler business. ‘Damn and blast them all.’

  He kept to the edge of the field and backtracked in the direction from which he had approached. There were ruts in the land, dips and rises hardened by frost, so his progress had to be slow. With no torch to light his path, he was forced quite literally to follow his nose across land on which he had played as a child, land of which he had been master. And he must remain calm.

  They had finished the main course and Alf had called for half-time. ‘They have it at Burnden Park, forty-five minutes each way and a rest between,’ he said, moving his belt buckle by an inch or two to allow for expansion. ‘So we should have a break and all. But let’s raise a glass to my wife and to Elsie, because that was a marvellous turkey.’

  They toasted Elsie and Leena, Meredith using the orange juice to which she had managed to confine herself. It had, indeed, been a lovely dinner and the company was excellent. It was all so cheerful. Peter had been right – Marie’s family did know how to express affection, how to have fun. It was nothing to do with money and privilege – it was tied up in respect and in making room for each other. Colin, Marie’s brother, kept staring at Meredith and Meredith did not object to his attentions …

  Bert volunteered to be the half-time entertainment, drawing from his pocket a harmonica. ‘I’ve fetched me mouth organ,’ he said, ‘as well as me wife. So, she will lead the singing, because she’s a walking mouth organ, is my Elsie. Any requests?’

  Aggie wanted ‘Teenager in Love’, Meredith shouted for ‘Maybe Tomorrow’, Peter asked for ‘Apache’.

  Bert nodded gravely, as if considering the requests. ‘All right,’ he announced, ‘you can sing any words you like as long as you can make them fit “The White Cliffs of Dover”.’ He launched into a medley of war songs.

  Meredith and Marie noticed a tear on Elsie’s cheek when she sang ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. She was thinking of Brian, her lad who had never returned from the Battle of Britain.

  Groans and moans came from every throat when Bert’s pièce de résistance turned out to be ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’. Marie said she was so full that she couldn’t lift her feet off the floor, Jeremy declared that he had no knees because Aggie was sitting on them and she was a dead weight, Polly announced that she wasn’t showing her knickers for anyone, let alone Mother Brown, whom she had never met.

  A great cheer went up when Leena brought in the flaming pudding. This was followed by laughter when Alf appeared at her side with a small fire extinguisher, its nozzle poised over the dish. Peter whispered to his sister, ‘You can have pudding – the fire burns the alcohol off.’ Meredith squeezed his arm and was grateful for his love. But she stuck to cheese and biscuits, as there was brandy butter and the rule could never be relaxed.

  Coffee and after-dinner mints completed the feast, then everyone adjourned to the front living room where the tree and an open fire were the only sources of light. There followed a quiet time while the company digested food and breathed in the contented atmosphere, some coming dangerously close to sleep as the minutes ticked by.

  They were shocked into full awareness when someone hammered at the door. Leena rubbed her eyes. ‘Who the heck can that be at this time on a Christmas night? Is anybody expecting anybody?’

  Nobody was. Alf went to admit the caller and was followed into the room by a tall man in an old army greatcoat and with a leather hood – the sort worn by motorbike riders – pulled over his ears. He removed the latter item and apologized for the disturbance. ‘Mrs Chandler?’

  Jean recognized him, yet could not quite place him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb your dinner
, madam, but I have been keeping an eye on a certain party. That party is on his way to the grange now. I followed him up from Halliwell Road about an hour ago. Normally, I would have reported back to the office, but with it being Christmas, the boss won’t be there. I thought it was best to come here. Sorry,’ he said again. ‘But I read in the Evening News that you were all spending the day here.’

  Aggie leapt up. ‘My dog!’ she screamed. ‘My dog’s up there.’ She pushed past the man and went to fetch her coat, Jeremy hot on her heels.

  Bert, Alf and the stranger walked to the door, ‘Stay here,’ Alf said to Peter and Colin. ‘You look after the ladies while we find out what’s going on.’ He paused, stared at Polly. ‘Are you all right?’

  Polly looked as if she had seen a ghost. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.

  Leena rushed to her side. ‘Nay, love, don’t be frightened of him – my Alf’s sorted him out before now and he’ll do it again.’

  Polly broke free of Leena’s restraining arm. ‘Derek? Is that you?’

  ‘It is,’ replied the newcomer. ‘And I would like to thank the young man and woman who brought Christmas to my door.’ The young man and woman in question were halfway out of the house, as were Alf and Bert. ‘I must go, love,’ he told his wife, a half-smile decorating his homely face. ‘And I can’t get the police, can I? Because at the end of the day, the grange is his home.’ He disappreared as suddenly as he had arrived.

  Polly sank back into her chair.

  ‘I knew him right away,’ declared Anna. ‘He was a woodsman for quite a few years. Then a frying pan entered the equation, didn’t it, Polly?’