‘Look, your tea’ll be cold. You look miles away. By the way’—May leant towards her—‘here’s a bit of gossip. You know the Robinsons, three houses down? He’s in the Town Hall, she’s secretary to a boss in the new factory on Pringle Road. Well, she’s divorcing him, her husband, but by all accounts it should have been the other way round. He’s gone to live with his sister in Gateshead and the house is going up for sale. A board went up yesterday. The things that happen in Bramble Lane. My! My! You don’t need to read the News of the World.’
Lizzie felt sick. She leant her head back against the bole of the tree and when she heard Peggy say, ‘You all right, Mam?’ she straightened up and flapped the front of her dress, repeating, ‘It’s this heat.’ Then she rose, saying, ‘I’ll get the wool later, May.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ said May flatly.
Peggy, too, had risen and she said, ‘I’ll have to be getting across; I’ve still to think up what to make for supper; likely salad again.’ She smiled at May, then turned away and walked by her mother’s side, retracing the way through the vegetable patch and into their own woodland. And there, taking hold of her mother’s arm gently, she stopped her. ‘Are you all right, Mam?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m all right.’
‘Is…is something worrying you? I mean more than me?’
Lizzie now smiled and put her hand out and stroked her daughter’s cheek as she said, ‘Strangely, you’re not worrying me at all now.’
‘I’m glad of that, Mam. Is it Dad?’
‘Again, strangely, no; he’s never been so quiet or pliable. Yet, at the same time it isn’t like him, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t. I haven’t heard him go on for weeks now.’
‘No; you’re right. And he seems to have lost all his bumptiousness. I don’t know what troubles me more, this side of him or the other. Anyway, dear, don’t you worry. How are you feeling yourself, I mean, physically?’
‘Fine, Mam. A nice feeling inside.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘Not that I’m not a weeny bit afraid at times.’
‘Are you happy?’
There was a pause before Peggy, her head drooped, answered such a simple yet searching question in saying, ‘I…I don’t know how one should feel when one is really happy. Great-Gran calls it over the moon; you could say I have a sort of contented feeling.’
‘You…you don’t love Andrew?’
‘I…I don’t know, Mam. Yet, when I ask myself questions I get all mixed-up answers, and so I keep telling myself to take it slowly, it’ll come. But Mam, I’m not yet seventeen and I don’t think I should be taking things slowly. Do you?’
‘It’s the baby. That’s how you feel; I mean, about taking things slowly. You can’t do anything else. After it’s born you’ll think differently.’ Lizzie now put an arm through Peggy’s and on a much lighter note she said, ‘How are you getting on with his mother?’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever get on with his mother, Mam. I like his dad and I like his sister. Funny, but I really do like her. You know something, though? Andrew’s ashamed of her; not of his sister, I mean, of his mother. And that isn’t right because she was all for him, wasn’t she?’
‘Oh yes, she certainly was.’
‘She’s getting into the habit of popping in during the evening when we don’t expect her. And sometimes Andrew’s hardly civil to her. I feel for her then, especially when he pulls her up when she says something like she did the other night.’ She gave a little laugh now as she went on, ‘She looked around the sitting room and said, “House-proud is as house-proud does”, and he came immediately back at her cuttingly, saying, “It’s handsome is as handsome does, Ma”. And she laughed, and she said, “There’s my clever clouts”. Funny, but I feel sorry for her at times when he looks down his nose at her. And she’s no fool, you know, Mam, so she must be feeling hurt. But oh, if only she was a bit different.’
As they emerged from the woodland Peggy said, ‘Another weekend. I thought the time would drag but it’s flying. If the weather keeps like this tomorrow we’re going down to Shields. Remember when you used to take me to Shields sands?’
‘Yes, I remember. And your father’s going off for the weekend too.’
‘Dad? Where’s he going?’
‘Likely the same place he went for his fortnight’s holiday. He just said at dinner time, “I’ll be away until Sunday night.” That was all, and that was the longest conversation we’ve had in a week.’
Peggy sighed now, saying, ‘How different things would be if he were different.’
‘Yes, indeed, how different things would be. But things are never as you want them. Are you coming in to see Gran?’
‘No. As I said, I’ve got to think about the meal.’
‘Give him an ice cream sandwich and an iced lemon drink. I should imagine that’s all he’ll want after being in the toolshop all day.’
At this they parted, Lizzie going into the house and Peggy into the side door of her home.
‘I wish I could stay the night.’
‘Oh, so do I, love, so do I. Well, if he’s away, who’s to miss you? Oh, I know you’ll have to say goodnight and all that; but do that, go on back, say goodnight. Leave the car in the lane so they won’t hear it start up.’
‘Oh no, Henry; it’s too risky. Very often in the night when Mother has decided to have one of her illnesses she’ll come knocking at my door. She’s just like a child. “Lizzie. Lizzie,” she says; “I’m not at all well.” No, it’s too risky. But oh, how I’d love to.’
‘Something’s got to be done, you know, love; we can’t go on like this, not forever. And it’s no use waiting until he dies, because he’s the kind of man who’ll hang on until he’s ninety.’
‘Oh, don’t say that.’
‘Well, I can tell you this much, my dear, I won’t hang on until he’s ninety.’
‘Just let us get the baby business over; I want to see Peggy settled with the child. You know’—she turned from his hold—‘I’m worried about her in a way: sort of on the side, away from all the other worries.’ She gave him a half smile now. ‘She’s not really happy.’
‘You didn’t expect her to be, did you? Pushed into marriage at that age. From what you say, she didn’t want it. In my opinion it would have been better if she’d had the child on her own.’
‘Oh, Henry, you know what’s said about such children and girls like her. Sometimes I think we’re still in the Victorian age. We are supposed to be enlightened but there’s still that stigma on both the mother and child. Anyway, darling, it’s getting dark; I’ll have to go and I’ll have to make up a barrage of answers to the barrage of questions when I get in. That’s another thing. What’s this friend of mine like that I’ve started visiting? Why is she bedridden? If she’s so ill, why isn’t she in hospital? This from Gran. So why aren’t you in hospital?’
How prophetic are the little things one says. So Lizzie was to think later.
They embraced a number of times before they parted, and the twilight was deepening as Lizzie drove home.
The house seemed different; it always did when he was out of it. But she hadn’t been in her room five minutes when the voice came at the door saying, ‘You there, Lizzie?’
‘Yes, Gran, come in.’
‘You got back then?’
‘Well, if it isn’t me it’s my ghost you’re seeing.’
‘Don’t be facetious, girl. How’s this friend of yours faring?’
…‘Oh, all right.’
‘Still bedridden?’
‘Yes, Gran, still bedridden.’
‘Funny, that: you suddenly find a long-lost friend you haven’t seen for years and she’s bedridden. Funny I’ve never heard about her before.’
‘There have been lots of things you hadn’t heard about before.’
‘Yes, Lizzie, yes, there have been lots of things I hadn’t heard about before. And there’s lots of things I’m not hearing about now, isn’t there? You got somebody on the si
de?’
‘Gran!’
‘Oh well!’ The old lady turned towards the door again. ‘I seem to smell a rat.’
‘You’re always smelling rats.’ And this statement roused Mrs Funnell to retaliate in a strident voice and say, ‘Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you had. No, I wouldn’t, not in your case. In fact, I’d give it a blessing.’
‘Oh, thank you very much, Gran; I’ll remember that and go out looking tomorrow.’ Lizzie laughed now. But when her grandmother said, ‘Where’s he gone? Do you know?’ she answered flatly, ‘You know as much about his destination as I do, Gran. And quite candidly it’s of no interest to me.’
‘Well, it is to me. That’s another one who very likely has something on the side. Seeing as you moved your camp across the landing, I don’t suppose he would be blamed for it. But being who he is, I blame him for everything.’
Yes; yes, that had been part of the trouble right from the beginning, she had blamed him for everything. No use saying he had asked for it. She didn’t like him, and that was that, so she blamed him for everything. She was made that way, a law unto herself. How much trouble and unhappiness was caused in this world by people who were laws unto themselves.
She looked hard at the old woman standing by the door. Had she ever liked her? Yes, she had liked her, but not loved her. Strangely, as much a nuisance as her mother was, she loved her mother because she had recognised that her forced illnesses were a shield against the fierce armour of that old lady going out of the door now with her back as straight as a ramrod…
Sunday morning dragged. Sunday afternoon dragged. She would have loved to drive over to the cottage and into Henry’s comforting embrace; but he would be visiting his sister this afternoon. She lived in Fellburn. Apart from the fact that she was his only sister and he was fond of her, her husband was rather ill and he liked to give her a break by sitting with him, and so he wouldn’t be back until seven o’clock.
She had asked her mother and grandmother earlier if they would like to join Peggy and Andrew in the wood where Peggy was spreading a picnic tea; May and Frank and Charlie would be there.
Immediately, her mother had said, ‘Oh yes; that would be nice.’ But her grandmother had come back at her daughter, saying flatly, ‘Don’t be silly, Victoria, acting like a girl at your age. You’ll sit down to tea in a civilised manner. You’re not supposed to be able to rise from the chair with sciatica, so how are you proposing to sit on the grass, eh?’
Lizzie exploded with laughter when her mother unexpectedly turned on her own mother, crying, ‘You act like the Monarch of the Glen, Mother, and you’re about as old-fashioned.’ And at that she had marched out of the sitting room, leaving Mrs Funnell to turn on Lizzie to vent her annoyance: ‘Don’t you dare laugh at her,’ she cried; ‘Monarch of the Glen, indeed!’ Then such was the character of Emma Funnell that her body began to shake and she put her hand tightly across her mouth to smother the sound of her own laughter and, looking at Lizzie, she said, ‘The worm is certainly turning. She’s never had any spunk. That’s why I’ve trodden on her. But, Monarch of the Glen.’ She wagged her head and her body began to shake again. Then, aiming to control it, she said, ‘I’m a dreadful old woman, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘You don’t mean that, Lizzie?’
‘Yes, I do. You’re a dominant, bossy, self-opinionated, seventy-four year old female who acts like half her age and expects other people to believe it and obey her every command.’
‘You really think I’m like that, Lizzie?’
‘Yes, Gran, I do, I do. You’ve always been like that.’
‘My God! And I’ve always thought, if no-one else in this house cared for me, you’ve loved me.’
How could you say to an old woman that you didn’t love her? The old hurt easily; they have lost a number of their skins. She said, ‘Of course I love you. In spite of you being a terrible old woman, I…I love you. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to the picnic and I’m going to sit on the ground and get sciatica.’
As she laughed the doorbell rang.
Lizzie opened the front door to see a strange woman standing there. She was dressed in a blue linen frock, and a cardigan. ‘Mrs Hammond?’ she said; and Lizzie answered, ‘Yes.’
‘I’m Henry Brooker’s sister, Jane Shilla. He’s…he’s in hospital.’
‘Henry in hospital? What’s the matter?’
‘He’s had an accident. Well, not quite an accident but…’
‘Come in. Come in.’ Lizzie almost dragged the woman over the step, then looked apprehensively round the hall before saying, ‘Come this way,’ and in her hurrying almost ran towards the study. Once inside she said, ‘Tell me…’
‘There’s nothing much I can tell you except that the police came for me about one o’clock this morning. I got the fright of my life. They had found him battered, lying near the phone. He had managed to dial 999. He was attacked.’
‘He isn’t…?’
‘No; but he’s very ill. He only came round fully a short while ago. You see, I have been going backwards and forwards to the same hospital; my husband’s ill, too—he caught a bug and it’s affected his insides—so I was actually with Henry when he came round, but as soon as he saw me he gave me your name. I suppose it’s because he won’t be in to work tomorrow.’ There was an enquiring narrowing of the woman’s eyes now before she said, ‘Do you…do you know him, I mean, besides being in the business?’
‘Yes; yes, we are friends.’
‘Oh.’ The woman’s chin went up on the word; then she repeated, ‘Oh,’ louder this time. ‘Well, he wanted you to know.’
‘I’ll go straight away.’
‘You won’t be able to get in before seven; at least, I don’t think so; although perhaps you might as he’s on the danger list.’
‘Danger list? Do…do you know who did it or why?’
‘All I could get from the police is that it was robbery. His wallet had been opened and all his money taken; and they had strewn stuff around the living room. Yet he must have been attacked outside because the blood was on the steps and the pathway. He must have come round and crawled in to the phone. How long he had lain there nobody knows, because as soon as the police got there they said they found my number in his telephone book and they got in touch right away. I’ll…I’ll have to be getting back now.’
‘Thank you for coming. Oh yes thank you for telling me. I’ll…I’ll go to the works tomorrow morning and arrange things.’ She spoke as if that was the main concern, while at the same time her mind was racing and crying out, Oh, Henry. Henry.
Her actions in contradiction to her thoughts seemed very businesslike: she let the woman out; she then ran to her grandmother’s bedroom, where she knew she was resting and said, ‘I’ve got to go to the hospital. Mr Brooker was attacked last night; he’s in a serious condition. I’ve got to find out what’s happened.’
Before Mrs Funnell could question her she was out of the room, flying across the hall, out of the house, and through the grounds into the wood from where she could hear the sound of laughter. And, standing outside the circle, she spoke to no-one in particular when she repeated what she had said to her grandmother. Within seconds everyone was on their feet asking questions and she spread her hands wide and flapped them, saying, ‘I can’t tell you anything. I’m going to the hospital. I’ll see you when I get back.’
‘Will I come with you, Lizzie?’ It was Frank Conway asking this, and she said, ‘No, Frank; thank you very much, but I’ll manage. Go on with your tea. Go on now; you can’t do anything anyway.’
She turned and ran back to the house; then, ignoring speed limits, within five minutes she was driving through the hospital gates. Three minutes later she was standing outside a long ward, and a nurse was saying, ‘He’s in emergency, mind; you mustn’t stay long.’
Lizzie looked at the bandaged head and face and an arm encased in plaster, the other having a tube attached with blood flowing t
hrough it. She bent over the bed, saying softly, ‘Henry. Can you hear me? It’s Lizzie.’
She had to say her name three times before his eyes opened, and then, his mouth twisted, he whispered, ‘Lizzie.’
‘Oh, my dear, my dear. Don’t try to talk, don’t; there’ll be plenty of time. Just lie quiet.’ As if he could do anything else. But what did one say?
She sat down on the chair by the bedside and stroked the fingers of the hand that lay spread out on the counterpane with the tube attached just above his wrist. After a moment his mouth opened again and he said something. ‘When…when?’
‘Don’t talk, my dear. You can tell me when it happened, later. Don’t try to talk.’
She herself could hardly speak now for the tears running down her face. She felt she had to let them run or she would choke.
She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there when a nurse came in and said, ‘I think you should go now. In his present state, visitors will only disturb him. Come back in the morning; he’ll likely be much better,’ and she drew Lizzie up from the chair and led her out of the ward.
A policeman was standing by the door. ‘Are you a relative of Mr Brooker?’ he asked her. ‘No; but he’s a friend and he manages our firm, Funnell Cars,’ she said.
‘Oh. Aye, yes.’ The policeman nodded. ‘Nasty business. We thought he was a goner. If he hadn’t got to the phone he would have been, because it got very cold during the night, as it often does, you know, after a hot day.’ He again nodded at her.
‘Was it robbery?’
‘Oh, yes, pure and simple. His money was gone; we found his empty wallet near the gate. But what’s puzzling is that the fight or whatever happened took place outside. I think he must have disturbed the intruder as he came indoors and was then hit with a blunt instrument. And it must have been a blunt instrument, for his head was in a mess, his arm was broken and his body battered from top to bottom, all for a few quid. It’s amazing what these fellas will do, and the risks they run. They would earn as much, likely, by doing an honest week’s work. But that isn’t their style.’
The House of Women Page 10
