As she looked into his cold gaze she thought, as she had so often done, If only he had loved me a little, been kind. But he had no kindness in him. He had no real friends, not even amongst those at church, or at the youth club. The only reason he took that over was to give him a place to exercise his power. She wondered if he loved anyone but himself. But why was she asking that? He loved Peggy…well, if he had any feelings at all they were for his daughter. And now she closed her eyes and muttered to herself, Oh my God! How am I going to put this?
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘There’s nothing the matter with me.’ Her voice was as loud as his own; it was that bawling that did it. She could stand up to him when he bawled. She’d had to learn this defence or he would have bawled her down on every occasion. That was one part of him her granny had been unable to subdue, his voice. And now, for a moment, she felt a sort of pleasure touching on impish delight in contemplating the words she was about to deliver to him.
‘I would hold tight on to something if I were you.’
He sat back in the chair.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing’s up with me, but there’s something up with our daughter.’
He slowly rose to his feet, pushing the chair back with a thrust of his foot and, after staring at her for a moment, he said, ‘You’re taking a delight in this, whatever it is, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes’—her head bobbed up and down—‘great delight, great delight; I’ve always wanted to be a grandmother: there’s not enough of them in this house.’
His lower jaw was thrust out, his eyes narrowed. He turned his body slightly away to the side while still looking at her before he said, ‘What are you saying?’
‘Well, you’re not dim, are you, Leonard? You’ve always pointed out to me how quick on the uptake you are, that you know what people are thinking before they open their mouths. It’s a bone of contention with you that people don’t understand how bright you are.’
It was she now who half turned from him; her mind was jumping to his defence: Why was she going for him like this? She knew what the news would do to him; and, in his own way, he certainly had something to put up with in this house.
As if in one movement he sprang round the desk and was now standing close to her, his face only inches from hers. Spittle on his lips, his nostrils wide, spluttering at her, he said, ‘She isn’t…she’s not? She couldn’t be! Not her.’
Her defence of him was gone. Her voice was even calm as she said, ‘Why not? She’s female.’
She watched his eyes widen, his brows lift; she saw his hand come up slowly past his face and his fingers raise the front of his hair until it matched the back. She thought he looked like a porcupine on the defensive. But the yell he now emitted showed that he certainly wasn’t on the defensive but on the attack.
‘Fetch her! Fetch her in here! My God! I’ll…I’ll…’
‘Yes, what are you going to do? Kill her?’
‘Fetch her! And shut that taunting mouth of yours.’
She was about to say, ‘Why don’t you come out into the hall or into the kitchen; there’ll be more room there to knock her about,’ but she thought better of it and walked purposely slowly from the room.
As she crossed the hall towards the stairs her mother and grandmother came from the dining room, and her mother called to her, ‘Did you move my indigestion tablets, Lizzie?’ But before she could answer, her grandmother, on a laugh, said, ‘I saw the cat running off with something,’ and added, ‘You and your indigestion tablets. If you did a little more bending you wouldn’t have indigestion. That dining room hasn’t had a good polish for weeks. Now get at it tomorrow and you’ll find you’ll be able to eat your dinner without indigestion…tablets!’ Mrs Funnell had moved from her daughter towards Lizzie and stopped her as she mounted the third stair, saying, ‘Something the matter? You are as white as a sheet. You feeling bad?’
‘No, Gran; I’m not feeling bad.’
‘Well, what is it? What happened over at May’s?’
‘You’ll know soon enough. Oh, yes, you’ll know soon enough.’
‘That isn’t good enough for me; tell me now.’
‘I won’t tell you now, Gran, you’ll wait. And you won’t have to wait long if you stay there.’ Lizzie now ran up the remainder of the stairs.
When she pushed open the bedroom door she saw her daughter sitting at the foot of the bed, and for a moment she wanted to rush to her and pull her into her arms because she didn’t look a sixteen-year-old, but more like the child who had stood before her in her new school uniform, how many years ago? She was still in her school uniform, but she was pregnant, and before this year was over she’d be a mother. Oh dear Lord! Lord! Why had this to happen? And in this house. But it wouldn’t happen in this house, she’d be married. Oh, yes, yes, her mind emphasised this. Whoever it was would be brought to book and she’d be married. If it was the last thing she did in her life, she’d see that she was married and had a place of her own. But where? Who would provide that? He was likely just a bit of a lad.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and, looking at the bowed head, she said, ‘How old is he?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘And still at school?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It doesn’t matter?’
The yell startled Peggy and the look on her mother’s face frightened her, and she stammered, ‘Andrew Jones.’
Lizzie drew in a long and calming breath and, putting out her hand, she jerked Peggy from the bed, saying, ‘Come on downstairs. You’ve got to face him.’
‘I’m…I’m frightened…Mam.’
‘I’ll be with you.’…
Lizzie wasn’t at all surprised, when they reached the hall, to see her granny standing near the drawing room door, but when she lifted her hand, finger wagging, saying plainly Wait, she saw surprise come over the old lady’s face.
She had to push Peggy before her into the study, then she quickly closed the door behind her. And when she saw the look on her husband’s face she said quickly, ‘Don’t you try any rough stuff.’ Then, ‘We’re going to talk.’
‘Shut up! And you come here.’ His index finger formed a crook; but Peggy remained where she was by the side of her mother; only for a moment though, for in two lightning strides he had her by the shoulders, pulling her towards the middle of the room, crying as he did so, ‘You dirty little slut! Whoring! Whoring! Who is he? Who was it?’
‘Dad…Dad.’ The words came out with each shake of her shoulders; and when Lizzie, gripping his arm, cried, ‘Give over! Give over!’ he kicked at her shins, causing her to let out a high yell and stumble backwards.
Just as his shaking hands moved over his daughter’s shoulders towards her neck, Emma Funnell rushed in like a soldier on a bayonet charge, except that she didn’t carry a gun but a walking stick. Quickly reversing her hold from the handle to grip the bottom and, thrusting it wildly out, she did something she had wanted to do for years and used physical force on Leonard Hammond. But it was he who was clutching at his throat and trying to release himself from the handle of the walking stick. And when, stumbling sideways, he slid from its hold he dropped on to one knee, where he remained gasping and staring up at the formidable woman bending over him. Then he was on his feet, his fingers stroking his neck as he cried, ‘What do you think you’re doing, woman?’
‘The same as you were doing to her.’ Mrs Funnell pointed to where Peggy was leaning over the desk; then looking towards Lizzie, who was rubbing her shin, she demanded, ‘Now tell me what this is all about.’
‘Oh, you don’t know?’ Leonard Hammond was still fingering his neck. ‘Fancy anything happening in this house that you don’t know. Well, as I understand it, my daughter is pregnant.’
In the silence that followed this announcement, Mrs Funnell looked at the schoolgirl, and from deep inside herself s
he wanted to cry, ‘Ah, no! No! Not Peggy. No!’ She loved Peggy as she had never loved her own daughter, because Victoria had been a sickly specimen since birth, a whingeing kind of child and then a more whingeing woman. Victoria’s daughter Lizzie had been different. She liked Lizzie, she was fond of Lizzie, but that was as far as it went: but where love was concerned she had given it to Lizzie’s child.
She was brought to face Leonard Hammond once more for he was bawling again: ‘Well! This is the finish. I’m putting my foot down. I’ve stood enough. She’s not staying here. Whoever gave it to her can have the responsibility of her. She’s not staying in my house!’
He knew immediately he had made a mistake, for the bark that Emma Funnell now let forth almost lifted them all up off their feet: ‘Your house! Your house!’
The word ‘house’ seemed to have come out of the top of her head and its echo floated away before she added, ‘This is something new: your house. Let me tell you, you little insignificant nincompoop, this is my house. Always has been and always will be; even when I’m gone you’ll have no share in it. I’ve seen to that. Now, as for warning your daughter to get out, your daughter stays here as long as she likes. But if you want to go and take your wife with you, you are quite welcome, any time. In fact, I think, after living rent free, and food free, all these years, it’s about time you found a place for yourself, isn’t it, Mr Hammond?’
Leonard Hammond stared back at the woman who topped him by inches and who at this moment he would have struck, even strangled, if only he dared. She meant what she said: she could put him out tomorrow. And what then? Probably a life in a council house with Lizzie.
He forced himself to turn away, to turn from her, to grope towards the desk, around it and into his chair, and there, placing his elbows on it he dropped his head into his hands. And from this position he did not see them leaving the room; he heard only the padding of their steps on the carpet. But with the clicking of the door he raised his head and looked towards it and then, taking the blotter in his hand, he slowly picked it to bits; he did not tear it, he just picked bits out of it as if he were plucking a chicken…alive.
Three
‘I don’t want to go, Mam.’
‘You’ve got to go. He’s got to face up to his responsibilities; he’s got to marry you.’
Peggy flung round from the window, crying, ‘I don’t want to marry him, Mam. I don’t want to have anything to do with him.’
‘You should have thought of that before, girl, then we wouldn’t have had this trouble, would we? And it’s no good bowing your head like that. You’ve got to see him and his people; they’ve got to take the responsibility.’
‘I can take the responsibility. I can go out to work and…’
‘Don’t be silly, girl. And anyway, I’m not thinking so much of you now but of the child. Have you any idea what it’s like to have an illegitimate child? The proper name for one is a bastard. D’you hear that? A bastard. There’s one halfway along this lane. She was made to feel different from when she first went to school. And her mother is known as a bad lot. Whether she is or not I don’t know, but her neighbours fight shy of her. Years ago they even tried to get her out of the house. But her mother owned it and now she owns it, and she defies them. Perhaps you’ve seen her strutting down this road dressed like a peacock. Her girl is eighteen now. They say she’s very bright, but what’s she doing? She’s in the packing room at the factory. She’s likely stamped because she can’t have a proper birth certificate, though why they should want a birth certificate for that, I don’t know. She’ll find it difficult to get a decent man to marry her though.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to marry. I don’t want to marry anybody. Do you hear? I don’t, Mam, never!’
‘Don’t talk stupid, girl.’ Lizzie turned away, and pointing to the wardrobe, said, ‘Get your hat and coat on.’
‘I don’t, Mam. Do you hear? I don’t.’
Slowly Lizzie now turned about and looked at her white-faced, wide-eyed daughter, and she said quietly, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t even started to live yet. You’ve tasted something that’ll be a torment to you in a very short time, and without marriage you won’t be able to have it, unless you become a loose woman. So shut up, girl.’ Her voice had risen now, and she ended, ‘No more talk. Get your things on and come downstairs.’
‘I…I won’t. I’ll go and see Great-Gran. She’ll…’
‘Huh!’ Lizzie stood holding the door and looking sadly at her child as she interrupted her, saying ruefully, ‘Your great-gran might be more up-to-date than next year’s newspaper, but where respectability comes in, let me tell you, your dad doesn’t hold a candle to her. If you want to know, it’s her express wish that you get married and as quickly as possible.’
‘’T’isn’t. She wouldn’t, not…not Great-Gran.’
‘Yes, Great-Gran. Go on, confront her with it’—she jerked her head to the side—‘I’m not stopping you. The only thing is, I don’t want you to change your opinion of her because, as you are always saying, she’s with it…Now, let’s have no more of it.’ And lowering her voice, she went on, ‘You’ve got to go and see this boy. If you don’t, your father will go, and imagine what’ll happen then. He’s only staying his hand because I told him Gran’s opinion, and that he had better leave it to me…’
They went out and down the stairs, and were crossing the hall making for the front door when Lizzie’s mother appeared from the dining room, saying, ‘Oh, I’ve caught you. I thought you were gone. Look; would you call at the chemist and pick up my prescription? Just hang on a minute and I’ll get it.’
‘We are not going that way, Mother.’
Victoria Pollock stopped. Her mouth had gone into a grim line, and her hands now going onto her hips, her usual stance when annoyed, she said, ‘Nobody’s ever going that way when I want anything done. It’s Mother this, Mother that, or it’s Victoria, do this, Victoria, do that, but when Victoria wants anything done, nobody’s going that way.’
Lizzie had paused but did not answer her mother; she just cast a sidelong glance at her before nudging Peggy again towards the door, and she followed her out and down the three steps onto the drive that curved between an avenue of trees to the main gate, and she immediately took in the fact that Peter Boyle, the part-time gardener, was mounting his bike.
She looked at her wristwatch. It showed a quarter to five, and he wasn’t supposed to finish until five. He wasn’t a satisfactory man, not like old Herbert who had died last year; he would stay till all hours and not demand a penny extra. But then, what did it matter, what did anything matter but this present situation? She didn’t know how she was going to face these people, or what their reactions would be. If she were to say to them half the things Gran had said they would likely turf her out into the street. She’d had quite a time stopping her Gran from accompanying them.
She glanced at her daughter. She was walking with her head well up, that defiant look on her face she had come to know more and more of late. She was a bonny girl; she would grow into a beautiful woman. Oh God! Why had this to happen to her? She should have spoken to her about things. She hadn’t talked to her about personal matters since she started to menstruate. And that was three years ago. But she had seemed so level-headed, so sure of herself. What was she talking about? What was she thinking? Youth was never level-headed or sure of itself. Youth was a time of false values, false urges, wild desires that drove you to prove that your night longings could be eased by a piece of paper on which you wrote your name in front of a man. Youth gave you no inkling that you would regret it for the rest of your life. But oh, didn’t you soon learn? Well, knowing this, why was she pressing her daughter into marriage?
No; this was a different kettle of fish altogether. She herself had hung on till she was married. But her daughter hadn’t waited and there was a penalty to be paid for such haste: an illegitimate child.
It wasn’t to be thought of. But then
, there was a point: if she had liked the boy well enough to allow what had happened to happen, and not only once, then she would likely settle down with him and live a normal, happily married life. Were there any normal married couples?
Yes, yes. She nodded to herself. There was May and Frank next door. She’d always envied them their happiness. Then there had been her grandmother and grandfather. They had been close until the day he died. But what about her own mother and father? Well, could anybody be really happy with her mother? Her whining would get on anybody’s nerves. From an early age she had both loved and pitied her father; as she grew older she had wondered why he stayed with her mother. Could he have loved her? Could a man love a woman who lives simply for her ailments, most of them imaginary? Her mother had had that one operation in her thirties and from then on had taken on a career of sickness.
Look at herself, too.
She couldn’t bear to look at herself and the life she was leading, because it wasn’t life.
‘Mam. What if he won’t marry me?’
Yes, what if he refused to marry her? Oh, she couldn’t bear even to think of the result of that situation: her schoolgirl daughter with an illegitimate baby and having to live in such a house with four females, perhaps five, depending on the baby’s sex, and Len. Oh, no! There had to be a solution to this situation, and the only one was marriage and getting them set up somewhere on their own.
The House of Women Page 3
