The Woman From Heartbreak House

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Indeed, you are not at all yourself.’ Lucy’s voice was rising in pitch as she warmed to her argument. ‘You’re making wild accusations left, right and centre, even laying the blame on me for poor Eliot’s death. Paranoia, I believe they call it. We are all trying to be patient with you, Kate. You’ve been overcome by grief at the loss of your husband, which no one can wonder at. I can understand, absolutely, what you are going through. Haven’t I suffered a similar fate myself?’ Lucy took out a lace edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  Yes, Kate thought, and you may well have been genuinely fond of Charles, but you loved his pocket book more. And then, to her horror, realised that she’d actually spoken this thought out loud.

  ‘How dare you say such a thing?’ Lucy screamed, jumping up and knocking her chair to the floor with a great crash, making Vera start with alarm and bringing Cissie to the verge of tears.

  Kate held her nerve, determined to remain calm while needing to make it plain that she was not the only one with flaws. She’d felt as if she was on the road to recovery, now Lucy was pushing her back into that pit of despair. She could feel it closing in upon her, a cloying blackness that deadened all sound and took away all rational thought. She had to fight the feeling if she was to survive. ‘I dare, because it is true. You continued piling up debts even after the poor man was dead, and Eliot paid them off.’

  ‘Only by selling my beautiful mansion on Lake Windermere. I shall never forgive him for that, never.’

  ‘He is dead, Lucy. You can no longer lay the blame for your own stupidity at Eliot’s door, or at mine for that matter. And as to running the factory, I do know what I’m talking about. Certainly better than you. Besides building up a business of my own that made army boots, I’m the one who kept this company going throughout the dark years of war, and will continue to do so.’

  ‘So my wishes are to be ignored, are they?’

  Toby hastily intervened, before matters came to blows. ‘Ladies, ladies, let us remain calm, shall we? We still have a great deal of business to get through.’

  Toby had replaced Lucy’s chair, poured everyone a glass of water, tugged at his waistcoat, filled in with a few inconsequential facts and details, giving everyone time to calm down. Then he took the plunge with his own idea. ‘I was thinking that, just because we can no longer make boots for the services, it’s no reason to stop making them altogether. We obviously still manufacture men’s working boots, but we could also branch out into boots for sport: for cricket, hockey and football. And of course climbing boots, which would sell well here in the Lake District.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ Lucy said, having smoothed down the pleated skirt of her new two-piece, adjusted her fox-fur hat and restored her composure. ‘I have simply loads of friends involved in all manner of sporting activities, as well as climbing of course, I could ask them to test them out for us. Wouldn’t that be ripping fun? Some of them are quite influential and their word would count for a great deal.’

  ‘It would certainly be a good way of getting free boots for your friends,’ Kate remarked, with unusual tartness.

  Lucy smiled, as if she’d drawn blood and was pleased by the fact. ‘At least it would be preferable to putting advertisements in common newspapers. You should be pleased that Toby, at least, is thinking clearly. One of us needs to.’

  Toby said, ‘Kate, what do you think?’

  ‘I agree. The idea is a good one.’ But as she jotted down a note on her pad, Kate wasn’t quite quick enough off the mark, and it was Lucy who called the meeting to a vote on the matter.

  ‘We’ll vote on the advertising suggestion too. I’m sure, Aunts, you will agree with me that Tyson’s does not wish to become embroiled in anything so demeaning?’

  Toby intervened yet again, gently pointing out that as the largest shareholder and chairman of the meeting, Kate was the one who must call a vote. ‘And we cannot take two votes at once. They must be done individually.’

  ‘Oh, very well, but do get on with it, Kate, for goodness’ sake. Really, you do seem to be losing your grip.’

  An ominous silence fell over the table as embarrassment permeated the assembly, nobody quite knowing what to say.

  Aware that the hand holding her pen had begun to shake, Kate set it down, swallowed carefully and called for a vote on Toby’s suggestion to make boots for sport and for climbing, ploughing through an atmosphere which felt as thick as treacle. What was wrong with her? Why did Lucy have the ability to turn her to jelly?

  The motion was unanimously accepted, as was hers concerning a new line of ladies’ fashion shoes, and Kate was secretly pleased with herself. An achievement there, at least.

  She lost the vote on advertising, and also one on an improved design for their shoe boxes because Lucy considered it to be an unnecessary expense, and the aunts, always fearful of spending money, agreed with her.

  Kate decided against raising her idea for producing varied fittings for her proposed line of ladies’ shoes, and more importantly, for children’s. She’d had enough for one day, felt utterly exhausted and emotionally drained by the whole performance. The subject would have to be addressed at some other time.

  But if this was an example of how things were going to be from now on, running Tyson’s Shoes was going to become increasingly difficult, if not impossible.

  Back at the house, over tea and scones, Vera tactfully attempted to point out to Lucy that perhaps she’d been rather hard on Kate at the meeting. ‘The dear girl is doing her best under most trying circumstances. It can’t be easy getting back to work after such a tragedy, learning to face a future without dear Eliot. They were very much in love, you know.’

  Lucy did not wish to hear how much in love they were, or to be the object of criticism by the aunts. ‘I know that Kate O’Connor has been nothing but a source of gossip and scandal ever since she first set foot in this house. She’s inveigled her way into our lives, first disposing of Amelia, then getting herself pregnant by Eliot and now the poor man has conveniently died, leaving her very comfortably off indeed.’

  Vera was shocked. ‘She did not dispose of Amelia, as you put it. Poor dear Amelia was sick with a tumour and Kate valiantly nursed her to the end. What are you suggesting? Surely you are not implying that Kate meant Eliot to die, that she in some way caused that accident? What nonsense! Quite impossible.’

  ‘How can we be sure? The police never did find the car that hit him, so how can we ever know the truth?’

  Cissie interrupted her. ‘My dear. I can’t believe you would imply … in any case, the old Crossley could never be driven so fast. And I’m absolutely certain that Kate would never hurt darling Eliot, although others might consider it politic to do so.’

  Even Vera was shocked that Cissie, of all people, should venture to express an opinion of her own volition, particularly one loaded with such dark insinuation.

  Lucy glared at her for several long seconds, before giving her most wintry smile. ‘Whoever, or whatever, caused it, that accident was most unfortunate and we must learn to make the best of things. But I cannot allow Kate to rule the roost entirely. Eliot must have left me such a substantial share for a reason. Perhaps he didn’t trust her either? Perhaps he too thought that her judgement was flawed? Or perhaps she threatened him in some way.’

  ‘Oh, dear me no. Surely not!’ Vera reached in her bag for her Sal Volatile. The entire morning had been an immense strain for her. The arguments at the church council meetings were as nothing compared to this.

  ‘She certainly had the most to gain from his death, and showed little eagerness to welcome him home. She wasn’t even at the railway station to meet him. It was most fortunate I happened along when I did. Poor dear Eliot felt so abandoned.’

  ‘She got held up by the children,’ Cissie said, growing increasingly distressed by the direction this conversation was going.

  Lucy ignored her. ‘After all, Callum is not Eliot’s true son, and Kate herself is not, strictly speaking
, even a member of the family.’

  ‘Meaning because she married into it, as you did?’ said Vera, in her most waspish tones. She hadn’t particularly welcomed Kate O’Connor into Tyson Lodge, all those years ago, nor did she feel entirely comfortable with her now taking over what was, in effect, the family business. But neither was she terribly fond of Lucy, let alone the arrogant Jack.

  Lucy was clearly irritated by this remark, despite its evident truth. ‘I’m speaking of the future, of who will take over in the fullness of time. It is imperative that the business remain in the family, with a genuine Tyson at the helm. Jack has a far greater right to it than that son of hers. Callum is nothing more than a workhouse child with not a scrap of breeding in him, as we all know.’

  ‘Callum has the makings of a fine young man,’ Cissie burst out, once again bringing startled eyes swivelling in her direction. ‘I will not hear him so maligned. He is working hard at his books as well as at the shoemaking, going to night classes, doing all that he can to better himself. I admire him enormously.’

  Vera nodded vigorously. ‘Quite right. Well said, Cissie.’

  Lucy leaned closer. ‘It is not well said. Callum O’Connor must never be allowed to take over the management of Tyson Industries. I will not allow it!’

  ‘I do not see how you could prevent it, should Kate choose to leave it to him,’ Cissie valiantly responded. ‘He is Eliot’s adopted son, as you said yourself, and Eliot left Kate, his widow, with a majority share in the business.’

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed, her mouth curled in derision as the tone of her voice chilled to an icy contempt. ‘If you two dear ladies wish to continue to live under this roof, and receive your regular monthly allowance from Tyson Industries, then you must learn to keep opinions of this nature to yourself. If you don’t like the way I run things, you can always go and live in that musty old house of yours in Heversham. You could easily live out your last years in genteel poverty and isolation there. If that fails to appeal, then I’d advise you to acquire the art of tactful silence. It will do you no good at all to try my patience too far. Do I make myself clear?’

  Chapter Nine

  Kate had hoped that work would be good for her, and in a way it was. It stopped her from dwelling too much on the past, and kept her mind fully occupied, yet it did nothing to banish that sick feeling from the pit of her stomach. Or the pain that rushed in upon her when she woke each morning.

  Responsibilities lay heavy on her shoulders. Prices had risen and the operatives would watch her with doubt and suspicion in their eyes, wondering if she could make it, if Tyson’s could survive in the new post-war world when the inevitable crash came.

  Kate worked hard and tried not to worry, to concentrate on small things, on the routine she had planned that day, on her children. Flora was a delight, forever caring and so resilient, as children are. There had been no repetition of her sickness and she seemed to have accepted that Lucy would be staying. She coped by largely ignoring her aunt, saying little when in her presence, and, to her immense relief, Lucy likewise ignored Flora.

  This may have had something to do with a little spat which occurred between them that was really most entertaining. Wicked though it undoubtedly was, it quite cheered Kate up.

  It had begun when Lucy told Flora one morning at breakfast that eggs were good for her.

  ‘I don’t like them.’

  ‘You should eat them.’

  ‘I know you once tried to make me eat them. I remember that very well, because you made me sick.’

  ‘I never willingly made any child sick, or forced you to eat eggs.’

  ‘Yes, you did. But you can’t make me any more. My mummy is here now, to stop you doing nasty things.’

  Lucy looked enraged and affronted by the accusation, as if she were a perfect innocent, or else had conveniently wiped from her mind all the horrid things she had done to Flora when she was small. ‘You’re a big girl now and should eat everything you’re given. You’re far too fussy.’ And she spooned a large portion of scrambled egg on to the child’s plate.

  Flora looked at it in disgust. ‘You eat it,’ she said, ‘if you like it so much.’ And picking up the plate, dumped the contents into her aunt’s lap.

  Lucy leaped to her feet, screeching with rage, yellow scrambled egg sliding down the front of her pleated linen skirt. ‘Control that child, or I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions!’

  ‘It’s your own fault, Lucy, for trying to bully her. Just leave her alone.’ It was very naughty of Flora, and Kate did make an effort to scold her daughter, but it was half-hearted. The child’s face was such a picture of mischievous delight, glorying in this small revenge, that she didn’t have the heart to be too cross.

  From Flora’s point of view, her show of retaliation had worked. Lucy left her alone after that.

  Lucy was hot, bothered, and decidedly dishabille by the time Swainson was done with her. He wasn’t exactly the ardent type but he certainly was not lacking in either energy or imagination. Today he had chosen to take her on his grubby little kitchen table among the detritus of the scrappy meal they’d shared, knocking plates and mugs to the floor in the process while he ravished her like a common kitchen maid. So deliciously sordid! And it had happened without any warning. He’d suddenly leaped on her, right in the middle of a most serious conversation about how she was to oust Kate from the factory and replace her with Jack.

  Lucy could see now how he used to ravage the women outworkers when he inspected the work they did for Tyson’s Shoes in their own homes. How extremely convenient. But then those women were cheap and of no account, not like herself who was never anything but in control. Or at least that was what Lucy told herself.

  It was simply sex, cheap sex, rough sex, degrading sex, which she enjoyed enormously. Where was the harm in that? She had always been a woman with ‘certain appetites’. She and Charles had played such wonderful games together once. So entertaining! Perhaps she could train Swainson in some of them. Would he dress up for her? Or let her spank him, as Charles had used to do? She glanced sideways at his sour expression and had second thoughts. More likely he would turn on her and give her a good walloping. She must ever remember that he was not her gentle, darling Charles.

  There were times when Lucy thought he was losing the thread of what this was all about. It was about her, not him; the re-establishing of power for herself. Money in her pocket, not his. Yet Swainson seemed much more concerned with his own neck.

  ‘What do I get out of it?’ he kept asking. ‘When do I get me old job back?’

  Having him back in the factory, swanking about his power over her, was no part of Lucy’s plan. But she had to keep him dangling. One never knew when the fellow might be useful. ‘Not yet. Be patient,’ she would soothingly remark.

  By way of compensation Swainson would demand more and more money if asked to do this, or that, or whatever task she had planned for him. Lucy had tried to get him to stir up resentment amongst the men at the factory, but that hadn’t worked. Loyalty to the woman from what had turned into heartbreak house was too strong in them. A sensitivity surely fed by pity.

  Lucy had got the ex-foreman to offer bribes but Toby Lynch had come along at the crucial moment and that hadn’t worked either, although Swainson had never given her the money back.

  Jack wasn’t on the board yet, and that must be Lucy’s main objective. Co-opting him on to the odd board meeting wasn’t enough. To achieve a secure position for her son, that must be her next task.

  The depth of her purse had its limits, so she would sigh and open her blouse, or her legs, whichever appealed most at the time, as it was far too expensive to keep giving the man money. And it really wasn’t too bad. So long as she held her breath and didn’t breathe in the rank odour of him, satisfaction could be provided for both parties.

  This wasn’t the first time Lucy had been to his house, a revolting little dung heap in a not particularly salubrious area of Kendal, out on fellside. She
’d never agreed to grace his bed with her presence. That would have been one step too far. Heaven knows when he’d last washed the sheets, but she wasn’t against a jolly little tumble, on the hearth rug, in the kitchen, wherever they happened to be at the time. So long as her lovely ebony hair didn’t touch any revolting, verminous pillow.

  And at first she’d rather enjoyed these little rough and tumbles. Quite a lot, in fact. When he was pounding into her she found it helped her to vent her own pent-up anger and frustration with life, with her dratted sister-in-law and those venomous old aunts.

  Yet Lucy had begun to think that really she should be finding someone more suitable to entertain her, more of her own class. She was growing bored with Swainson’s uncouth manners and violent snorting at the moment of climax.

  Now that the alterations on the house were practically finished she ought to be extending more of a social life, as she’d always promised herself that she would. Once Jack’s position was secure Swainson would be superfluous, although how she would manage to dismiss him from her life and keep him quiet about the things he knew was a problem yet to be resolved. He might still prove useful to her, if things got tricky, so she must tread carefully.

  Right now he was poking into her with his fingers and Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, all right, one last go and then I really must be off, she groaned, half glancing at the watch she wore pinned to the collar of her linen jacket. I have so much to do today.’

  He wasn’t even listening. He turned her over and took her again, pressing and thrusting against her just as if he were rolling pastry on the cracked wooden table, making her squeal out loud with painful ecstasy. Perhaps she’d leave things as they were, just for now.

  If only Kate could resolve her own problems with her sister-in-law quite as easily as Flora seemed to have done. Every night when she came home from the factory, instead of being able to relax, there would be Lucy waiting for her, ordering her about, telling Kate what to do, saying when she might eat, criticising her clothes, her appearance, the waxy paleness of her face.