‘Hello, Freda. Come in.’
‘I’m…I’m sorry to hear that you have been ill.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing; just a touch of ’flu. Sit down, won’t you?’
It was all so formal that Alison wanted to scream. She watched Paul indicate the chair that Mrs Gordon-Platt should take, and not until she was seated did he return to the couch. Then, looking over the back of it to where Alison was still standing, he said, ‘You have met my ward already, so there’s no need for any introductions.’ He turned his face to the visitor now and added lightly, ‘By the way, would you like coffee?’
‘Yes. Yes, I would, thank you.’
Again he was looking over the back of the couch towards Alison. ‘Tell Nellie, Alison, will you…as you go out? There’s a good girl.’
She had to get out of the room at once. Good girl again! Treating her like a child, and dismissing her in that way!
As she stood in the little hall trying to compose herself before going across to the kitchen to give Nellie Dickenson the order, the reason for her annoyance at being termed a girl came to her with devastating truth. She had for so long been mistress of this house that she considered she had ceased to be a girl many years ago. She had taken up the role of chatelaine with zest and metaphorically she had worn the keys at her belt; and one of those keys had locked her guardian and herself fast together. But now it looked as if she might have to hand that key over to someone else. She turned her head at the sound of the voices coming from within the room. In the seconds she had been standing outside the door no-one had spoken. Had they just been sitting looking at each other? The woman’s voice was so low that Alison only just caught the end of her words. ‘And it’s wonderful to see you again, Paul.’
Alison waited for the reply and when it came it eased the beating of her heart just the slightest. For Paul’s voice was no longer smooth and easy; no longer was he the host receiving the unexpected guest. His voice was deep and harsh as he asked, ‘Why have you come?’
The woman did not answer this question, but after a space she gave a little laugh and said, ‘You haven’t altered, Paul, not in all these years. You have so many faces. I always said the stage had lost an actor.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
The kitchen door opening caused Alison to scurry forward. As if Mrs Dickenson had surprised her at eavesdropping, she fumbled with her words as she said, ‘Would you…Mr Paul…If you don’t mind, Nellie, taking more coffee in, he has a visitor.’
‘Oh, all right. But it means making fresh.’ Mrs Dickenson turned her uncompromising body around and went back into the kitchen, as Alison, taking each stair slowly and thoughtfully, went down to the shop, there to meet Nelson eagerly awaiting her.
Nelson had a habit, when excited, of tapping his thumbnails together. This made a quaint sound, like the noise of a miniature woodpecker. And now to the tap-tap-tap he came forward, saying, ‘Aa know who she is. She’s changed. By lad, she’s changed, but Aa recognised her. What does she want here?’
‘You know as much as I, Nelson. But you say you knew her? When was that?’
‘Oh, just afore the war. When she and Mr Paul…’ He screwed up his small eyes at her. ‘Perhaps this is news to you but that one’—he jerked his eyebrows upwards—‘and Mr Paul were thick enough at one time to be near married…Believe that? But what does she want now? Aa smell a rat. Aa was never much for her and Aa’m not likely to alter after twenty years. But, by, she’s changed! Still good-looking though.’ He jerked his head towards Alison. ‘Aa wonder how he’s taken it.’ He leant towards her again. ‘What happened when she went in?’
‘Nothing. Nothing much.’
‘By lad, Aa wish Aa could have been there.’
‘Nelson.’ She took the old man’s arm and led him away from the staircase door towards the centre of the shop as if she were escorting him to the street, but halfway down the drugget she drew him to a stop and asked quietly, ‘How long did they know each other?’
‘Nearly two years, Aa would say, but it was a high-powered two years from what Aa remember of it, for he was nuts about her. Aye’—Nelson shook his head slowly—‘there’s no denying that. Clean stark staring mad, he was. His old dad was worried, but he didn’t live to see the end. Aa’d do anything for Mr Paul, give him me life. Aa would that—he knows Aa would—but in me heart Aa was glad at the time that things turned out as they did, ’cos there wouldn’t have been any place for me here if he’d got her. Ooh!’ The word was long drawn out. ‘Aa knew that all right. Aa’ve knocked about a bit and Aa know people. You see Aa don’t know whether you know this either, Miss Alison, but Aa was on the road; you know, a tramp. It was with the slump. All the shipyards were idle in the North, an’ the mines an’ all, and, with many a thousand other men, Aa tramped south. An’ one winter night I came up the street here and you know where Farrow’s, the wine shop, is now? Well, there was a café there then, and the smell knocked me clean out. Aye, it did.’ Nelson laughed at the memory. ‘Aa fell flat on me face and Aa woke up in the back shop here. Yes, in this very shop. Mr Paul’s dad had carried me in and when Aa came round he gave me a feed. Aa offered to work to pay him for it and Aa asked him if he could give me a job. He said he was right sorry but he couldn’t, as business was bad. This country was in an awful state then, miss. Paul at the time was still a lad at school. There was no Mrs Aylmer; she had died years ago. An’ Aa saw that this place wanted cleaning up. Aa liked pieces of furniture. Me mother had had some nice pieces in the kitchen afore she had to sell them for bread and such, and Aa made old Mr Aylmer a proposition. Aa said to him “Give me one square meal a day and Aa’ll work for you for nought.” For after all, miss’—he brought his stooped shoulders further down and wagged his face in front of her as he gave voice to a profound truth—‘for after all, it’s only heat and meat we live for, isn’t it? Well, that’s how Aa really started here, miss. And when Mr Paul had just turned sixteen his father died, an’ he leaves school and takes over. Then comes the war, an’ just havin’ one eye they won’t take me, so Aa do me stint as night watchman at Wheeler’s an’ Aa look after the place here and buy a little bit when I can, so’s to stock up for the time when he should come back and want to start again.’
Alison stopped the flow at this point and, patting him on the arm, she said softly, ‘Yes, I know, Nelson. And Mr Paul appreciates all you’ve done. You can believe me he does.’
‘Oh, Aa know that, miss. Aa know, for what he’s done for me already. Aa’m set up for life now, with me two little rooms and me regular stint. Oh, as long as Mr Paul’s alive Aa’ll be all right. And he’ll see me out, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘But what about the girl, Nelson? I mean, Mrs Gordon-Platt.’ Alison probed, gently pushing the old man’s memory backwards again.
‘Oh, her. Well, Aa think that started when he was still at school, in the sixth form. You know, she was nothing. Her old man had a boot shop around Talbot Close, Carter they called him. But she was a looker and she had the lads after her. And Mr Paul was a looker too. They made a striking pair, as Aa remember. And then there was this fellow, Charles Platt…Gordon-Platt. He first came on Mr Paul’s horizon on the football field, as far as Aa can gather. Mr Paul was captain of his school first eleven, and so was this bloke at his boarding school. And strange as it may seem, they struck up a friendship. Aa don’t think Mr Paul knew who he was at first, and then he was a bit flattered like, and who wouldn’t be, because afore the war the house where he lived was some place. Beacon Ride, just off the coast road.’
‘Yes, yes, I know it, Nelson.’
‘Well, it was a funny kind of friendship, for this other lad was nearly three years older than Mr Paul. Then just about the time Paul’s dad died, this young fellow went up to Oxford. But he wasn’t there long afore he got into mischief and was sent packing, and from then on he haunted this shop here and Mr Paul. Aa never knew the rights of it then. Mr Paul didn’t talk to me in those days like he does
now—we weren’t close then—an’ Aa hadn’t had a chance to do very much for him. Besides, he was just a lad, and after all Aa was just a fellow his father had picked up in the street, and Aa couldn’t expect to have much influence on him, nor for him to tell me anything that was troubling him. But as time went on Aa knew there was something afoot and it wasn’t good. It was to do with the printing business. You know Burton’s, the supermarket, in Pye Street?’ Alison nodded. ‘Well, that used to be a printing firm, and Aa had the surprise of me life when Aa found out that Mr Paul had bought it, him and this Charles Gordon-Platt. Aa didn’t know the ins and outs but Aa know Aa was very puzzled at the time, and still am’—he nodded his head quickly at her—‘as to where the money came from, for to buy a printing business you need thousands and thousands, and this place’—he wagged his head about, indicating the shop—‘was bringing in hardly enough to pay the mortgage on it. An’ then the balloon burst…When Mr Paul first got to know her’—the head was jerked upwards again—‘she was never out of this place. Hours an’ hours an’ hours she spent up those stairs with him. One time Aa thought Aa’d hint that they would get talked about, but Aa had enough sense to keep me mouth shut. And then this Charles fellow starts joining them. Mr Paul, he didn’t seem to mind, for he was, in a sort of way, as daft about the Gordon-Platt bloke as he was about her. Then one day, it was just a couple of months afore war was declared, a man came to the shop and spent quite a long time upstairs with Mr Paul, and from that day nothing went right. After that, this man kept comin’ and there was another bloke with him, a solicitor. At this time, Aa remember, she, Freda Carter as she was then, was on holiday at Dover, supposedly with an aunt, and Mr Charles Gordon-Platt was noticeably absent from the shop an’ all. Well, the long and the short of it, Miss Alison, is that they never came back to the shop at all. They had run off together, an’ believe it or not, it nearly knocked Mr Paul round the bend…See here.’ He took her arm. ‘Aa’ll show you somethin’. You’ve seen them afore, but you’d never have guessed in a hundred years what they were caused by…Look at these here.’ He had led her back down the shop to the door of the storeroom. The framework of the door was of heavy oak and passing through the top lintel was a beam that ran the whole width of the shop. The stanchion of the door and the beam were notched in several places as if by a chopper. ‘See those?’ Nelson pointed. ‘Mr Paul did that. He had bought a lot of old stuff from a big house in Brighton. Aa helped him bring it in from the car. Old swords, a broken visor, stuff like that. It had been displayed in a private museum. He had pulled one of the swords from its scabbard when Aa remarked in a jocular way, like, “Mail from Dover there, Mr Paul.” “Where?” He had the sword in his hand as Aa pointed. An’ still with it in his hand he went over to the desk where Aa’d left the letter, an’ laying down the sword he picked it up. Aa don’t know from that day to this what was in that letter, but Aa do know its contents sent him stark staring mad. Aa’ve seen men go barmy. Oh, aye, Aa have. Me uncle ended up in an asylum after upsetting a lamp over his wife, and her in bed with a newborn bairn. He went stark staring mad and ran amok, and we searched the fells for him for two nights, but he had nothing on Mr Paul that day. For he took up that sword and he slashed at everything in sight. He ruined the only few decent pieces we had in the shop, and he finished up on that lintel. You know, Miss Alison’—Nelson bent towards her—‘if anybody had been in the shop that day, even if anybody had been passing by, they would have had him locked up. He went clean, stark staring mad and then he turned on me, but Aa didn’t bother to stay and argue. You couldn’t see me for dust. Aa went out that back way and up the yard quicker than Aa’d moved in me life afore. Later Aa came round to the shop door, but it was locked. An’ later again, Aa came back in case he had done himself an injury. Aa crept upstairs and there he was, sitting, just sitting, staring in front of him. An’ you know something, Miss Alison, he looked as old that day as he does now. He has never grown any older. He jumped years that afternoon and he’s stayed like that. Anyway, he has to me.’
‘Oh, Nelson.’ The tears were blinding Alison now, and she put her hand up and traced her fingers down the row of deep slashes in the lintel. ‘To think he went through all that. I never guessed at any such thing.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. But Aa know Mr Paul. Aa know him better than anybody, even better than you, miss. He’s a secret man, Mr Paul is. There are still things Aa can’t fathom. Aa have always wondered what old Mr Tapley has on him.’
Alison swung round, rubbing at her eyes. ‘You mean Bill Tapley’s father?’
‘Aye, miss. Bill Tapley’s father. There was something funny there. Aa could never get to the bottom of it because Aa couldn’t ask Mr Paul outright, not then Aa couldn’t. Aa could now. Oh aye, Aa could now. But it’s over and done with. Yet, at times, Aa still wonder what it was. Aa don’t suppose you know, do you?’ He cast his eyes sidewards at her.
‘No, Nelson. No, I don’t. And I’m just realising how little I know about Mr Paul. I really know nothing…Nothing.’
The old man leant towards her once more, and knocking his thumbnails together quickly he remarked, ‘There’s one thing Aa do know. Oh aye, Aa do know. He thinks the world of you; you’ve made a difference to his life. Aye, Aa do know that. He would be lost without you.’
Alison turned her back on the old man, saying to herself, ‘I wonder, I wonder.’
‘Ah, well.’ Nelson sighed. ‘There’s goin’ to be changes, Aa can feel it. Life becomes too pleasant, too easy, an’ God says let’s stir them up a bit, they’ve had it easy enough long enough. An’ He sends somethin’. An’ the somethin’s arrived ’safternoon, if you ask me. Aye, well. We can do nought about it; Mr Paul’ll go his own gait and take no notice of nobody, if I know him. An’ Aa must go me road or else Aa’ll never get that load back the day, will Aa? An’ me yelling to be off ages ago … But you know something?’ He was halfway down the shop again when he turned to her. ‘Renault said Aa was getting too old to drive the van. What do you think of that?’
As Alison replied, ‘That’s nonsense, Nelson,’ she thought, He may be right. But Nelson’s age and his ability to drive the van were of little consequence to her at the moment. The only thing that mattered now was that the staircase door should open and Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt would emerge to leave the shop and not return. The horrible woman. As Paul had asked, why had she come back? And to think that she had nearly driven him mad. He must…he must have loved her with an intensity that wasn’t quite normal. This thought deepened the ache in her chest and told her that here she had the reason for Paul not marrying. Vaguely she recalled rumours of women who had shown more than ordinary interest in him, but she had felt herself too secure in his affections to let them worry her. But Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt was no rumour. She was here in the flesh, attractively so. And would her power be any less today than it had been nearly twenty years ago? Oh, if only she would come. Why wasn’t he throwing her out?…
But Alison had some time to wait before Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt emerged. It was well over half an hour later when she heard the muffled footsteps on the stairs, and she was so worked up by this time that she could not allow herself to face Paul and the woman. So, moving swiftly, she went into the back shop.
They were talking when they entered the shop, quite amicably, like firmly-established old friends. The sound of their level voices caused Alison’s hand to press on her throat. She heard the footsteps pause and Mrs Gordon-Platt’s voice say, ‘Miss Read. I’d better say goodbye to her. Is she about?’
‘No, I don’t suppose so. She’s likely gone out on one of her foraging expeditions. She’s very keen.’
‘Yes. Yes, she gave me that impression too…She’s…she’s an unusual-looking girl, rather beautiful, in a miniature sort of way. She should be very attractive when she develops.’
Alison’s fingers were pressing so tightly on her throat that she was forced to gulp. Then her lips formed into a tight line as Paul’s voice came to her, his wo
rds in absolute accord with those of his visitor. ‘Yes, I think you’re right there. She should be quite something when she grows up.’
‘Grows up!’ Alison repeated the words to herself. Wait till she got him alone; just wait. She had been grown up for years and he knew it.
As the steps moved further away she crept towards the door, and standing to the side she could see the two figures outlined against the glass of the shop door. They were facing each other and Mrs Gordon-Platt was speaking. Alison couldn’t quite catch all she was saying but the tail-end of her words came distinctly: ‘As I said, youth is a crazy period, a period of false values and madness…blind madness. It’s a pity that one is held accountable for the madness, though, isn’t it? One suffers for being young…Age has its compensations, don’t you think so, Paul?’
‘Yes, I do think so. Age, as you say, certainly has its compensations.’
Paul said something further, then Alison watched him take the outstretched hand and hold it. Then he opened the door and Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt turned and looked at him once again before leaving.
Alison now moved quietly forward and she watched Paul’s eyes following the woman until she was out of view. When he turned to come down the shop she was waiting for him, and he stopped on the sight of her. For a moment he stood looking at her over the distance. It was an appraising look. Then he smiled before coming on, and when he was standing above her he bent forward and whispered, ‘Well, did you get an earful?’
She had meant to go for him, saying, ‘I’ll be able to do a job of real work, I suppose, when I develop,’ but she couldn’t say a word for the simple reason that she saw on his face an expression she did not recognise. She had never seen this particular look before. It was a sort of…Inwardly, she turned away from the word, ‘ecstatic’. Paul was happy. She could see it in his eyes, and the knowledge was like a scalpel probing her flesh. Paul was happy because he had taken up the threads of his old life…The girl who had nearly driven him mad had become a woman and had sought him out. The words came back to her. ‘Youth is a period of false values,’ she had said, and, ‘Age has its compensations.’
The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory) Page 5
