Henry’s head jerked backwards when it seemed Jones was about to spring on him; but it was his words that hit him with such force as they were ground out, ‘She’s my daughter. When I go, she goes.’
‘Oh no, she won’t.’
‘You keep out of this.’
‘That’s what I’ll not do. I’m away to phone the doctor, but before I do that, I’ll phone the police. I’ll put a stop to your gallop one way or the other; I’ll arrange it so you won’t be able to lay a hand on her.’
As Henry hurried towards the stairs Jones sent a mouthful of such obscenities after him that his step was checked for a moment; but he stopped himself from turning and going back and banging his fist into the dirty mouth.
Jones now hurried across the landing and into his own room, and there he stood pondering for a second, defiance in his attitude, one which was prompting him to stay and try to talk the old bitch over. His common sense, however, told him that she was past talking over; she would just as likely have him put into jail as not.
His teeth grinding together and like one demented, he began pulling clothes from the wardrobe and from the chest of drawers; then he crammed them into two large cases he had taken from a shelf in the top of the cupboard. The last articles he took were from the dressing table drawer: gold cufflinks, three watches and two signet rings. Then, putting on an overcoat, he lifted up the two cases and walked towards the door. But there he paused for a moment and looked back around the room, and only then did it really register that, as Brooker had said, he had been a fool: he should never have kept any receipts. But yes, he had found it good from time to time to look on the evidence of his cleverness. Some odd need in him craved for praise, and the only way it could be satisfied was to tot up each week the amounts out of which he had diddled the firm, forgetting that the firm was the old girl. If he had been wise he should have left all the business in the bungalow. But then Rosie wasn’t as simple as she appeared to be; she was nosey and liked to get to the bottom of things. He’d always had to keep a watchful eye on her. But oh, what he had lost through this one slip, this one little slip of stupidity: this room, this house, and, aye, by God, the business! Oh yes, she had hinted at that. She had been hinting at it with glee for some time now, telling him that they were all going to get a shock when she was gone, but insinuating in her own way that his shock would be pleasant. Oh, very pleasant.
His reverie over, he put down the cases, opened the door, then lifted up the cases again and went out, and made his going as noiseless as possible. But after putting the cases in the boot of the car he turned and looked back towards the house and to the window of his daughter’s room, and it was as if he had yelled aloud, for he could hear the voice in his mind, crying, ‘Married? Not if I know anything about it. If that’s the last thing I do, I’ll stop that. By God, I will!’
Five
Mrs Funnell had suffered a slight stroke. Her left arm was affected, and also her mouth was slightly twisted, but she could still talk. And talk she did, alternating from venom to supplication. The venom was directed against her once dear boy, and never a day passed but she demanded to know if the police had yet found him.
Her supplication was aimed mainly at Peggy. Peggy wouldn’t leave her, would she? Oh, she knew all about her and Charlie, and she wouldn’t mind Charlie coming into the house once the divorce was through. No, she didn’t want her granddaughter Lizzie and Henry here. Lizzie was hard: she didn’t understand her. And she would leave everything to her if only she would stay with her to the end, and the end, as she could surely see, wasn’t very far off.
All this cringing had come about because Peggy had stated that, once the divorce was through, she would then lead her own life, that she had had enough of this house and all that was in it. This she had said to her mother in a low voice whilst in the bedroom, imagining that the old woman was asleep. But although Mrs Funnell lay most of the day with her eyes closed, only she knew that she slept very little and that her mind was as active and as clear as it had always been.
They were well into the New Year now; in fact, it was already the beginning of March, and on this day there was a conclave being held in the drawing room. Present were Lizzie and Henry, Peggy and Emma, Charlie and May. They all held cups of tea except Peggy, and she sat at the side table, a hand on the teapot as she listened to her mother, saying, ‘They should have put the police on to him straight away. He should be behind bars.’
‘Well, we decided against that, feeling that it could be bad for business. Probably many of those people he had done, or even hadn’t done, would come asking for refunds.’ Henry turned now and looked at Peggy, saying, ‘You really think he’s gone abroad?’
Peggy slowly poured another cup of tea out before she said, ‘That’s only what Rosie Milburn thought. The solicitor said Andrew had persuaded her to sell the bungalow—it was in her name—but then he didn’t give her a penny of it.’
‘Serves her damn well right!’
Peggy glanced at her mother before going on, ‘And there’s no possible way of making him refund any of the money. Anyway, he’s taken it from the two banks. He certainly wouldn’t refund any of it off his own bat, the solicitor said; he would have to be taken to court and our case proved to get any recompense.’
‘Do you think he’d go abroad without trying to see Emma?’
Peggy looked across the room at Charlie, and it was some seconds before she said, ‘I wouldn’t think so; but he had hinted as much to Rosie Milburn, suggesting that they would both go. But then, as she told the solicitor, he just disappeared, taking his cases and everything else belonging to him. She had come back from work to the rented rooms in which they were living and found him gone. He left her nothing. And naturally, she’s bitter.’
It was Lizzie again giving a grunt of a laugh and exclaiming, ‘Bitter! She’s only getting what she asked for. It’s a pity she’s able to work.’
Peggy looked at her mother as the thought again struck her that some parts of her great-gran would never die as long as her mother was alive.
It was she herself who should be feeling bitter against Rosie Milburn, yet she wasn’t; in a way she felt sorry for her: she always remembered how nice she had once been, how helpful. And what was more, hadn’t she a lot to thank her for? Hadn’t she relieved her of the nightly fight and struggle, which always ended in exhaustion?
All this while Emma had sat with her head slightly bowed, staring towards the cup she held in both hands where it rested on her knees. Had her father gone to Australia? Oh, she hoped so; she’d be free then from this awful dread.
She had not been to school for three days, for not only would her mother have had to take her there, she would also have had to wait in the car for her as though she were a small child being met from school. But really this was of little relief, for she always felt more apprehensive in the lane rather than anywhere else that a car would slow up and her father would jump out and grab her. Her mother couldn’t be with her all the time.
She had seen him twice: once at the gate at the end of the drive here, when she had turned and flown back into the house; another time when she and her mother were crossing the market. Her mother had stopped to look at a stall selling all kinds of junk, and she had turned and looked behind her as if she had been pulled around by a force, and there he was standing on the pavement only a stall away. She had gripped her mother’s arm and said, ‘Don’t turn round, but Dad’s behind.’
Peggy did turn round, her eyes scanning the pavement, and she said, ‘You must have been dreaming; there’s no-one there.’
‘He was, I tell you. He was.’
That night she had asked herself why she should really be so afraid of him; after all, he was her father. And the answer came whipping back: Don’t be silly, asking a stupid question like that of yourself.
There had been no real fear of him until the night when the incident took place on the couch; before that, her feelings had touched on slight revulsion at being held
so closely and at being stroked and patted as if she were still a child. But on that night she knew he hadn’t seen her as a child, and now she questioned if he had ever seen her that way.
She knew she had refrained from reading about such cases in the paper; and only a few months ago she had switched off a television documentary, refusing to believe that she was in any way involved in such nastiness. But now she was fully aware of what would happen if ever her father got her alone, really alone. If only she was married; he couldn’t touch her then. But she had promised her mother to remain engaged a year. Yet more often now, she doubted she could keep that promise.
Why couldn’t they be like other families, normal? Why did she have to have such a father? But Ricky said it was common for many men to feel for their daughters as her father did for her, and that it had always been so; it was just that it was being brought more into the open now. The public had been made more aware of it these days. Surprisingly, it was often the mothers who were to blame, for they knew what was going on, yet they didn’t report the husband.
Her mother had known about it, and she should have done something sooner, shouldn’t she? Taken her away.
But what could she do? There was Gran-Gran to be looked after, and she had been on her father’s side; and on no account would Gran come back to the house. And so her mother’s hands had been tied. In a way, too, so had her heart, because if she had left the house, she would have had to leave Charlie; yet wouldn’t Charlie have gone with her mother?
The thought of her mother and Charlie made her feel hot inside; yet that her father had a mistress had never really affected her. Why hadn’t it? And why, he having a mistress, should he want her, herself? It was all so mixed up and puzzling. Oh, she wished she was away from here: the house, the town, away with Ricky, just the two of them, no-one else in their world. But that was silly; he was a doctor and there would always be people in his world. At times she felt grown-up, at others she knew she had a lot more growing to do and there would be the urge to get on with it.
She raised her head and looked at them, at her mother sitting looking at the teapot again as if she were interested in it. She was a beautiful woman. She had never thought of her mother as beautiful before; nice looking, bonny; but never beautiful. But she was beautiful, as Ricky had said. Then there was her grandmother; she, too, was good-looking, but old somehow; well, she was over fifty, but she was smart, she dressed well. And then there was Charlie. Charlie was a little younger than her mother; thirty-two, nearly thirty-three. He was a plain-looking man, but his face was kindly. He didn’t look like a marvellous musician. Yet what would a marvellous musician look like? She couldn’t imagine Charlie playing before all those foreign audiences. Yet she understood that he was well known, and she had heard her Auntie May say that he could have been even more so, if it hadn’t been for her mother. She had heard this when she had stood outside the kitchen door that time they were having a row; at least, not a real row, just hot words. Auntie May doted on her Charlie. Funny, how she felt about Auntie May: it was likely because she was the only one who would always speak the truth, came out with it; tactlessness, her gran said it was.
Peggy’s voice disturbed her reverie. She was saying to Lizzie, ‘You’ll have to come and relieve me at times, give me a break. I’ve got her seven days a week, and nights, too. It isn’t fair.’
‘She’s got enough money to engage a night nurse, and a day one at that. Don’t be silly; put your foot down.’
Peggy’s reaction was to rise to her feet and to answer her mother indignantly: ‘You go upstairs and put your foot down and see the reception you’ll get. Anyway, Mam, it wouldn’t hurt you to come over one night a week and give me a break.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lizzie, too, rose to her feet. Her head was turned away, her eyes closed for a moment, as she said, ‘I really am, Peggy, but I can’t stand being with her. I never thought I would feel like this about her, but since the solicitor hinted what she intended to do, to leave everything to that bastard, and that’s what he was’—she now nodded from one to the other as if daring contradiction—‘I can’t bear the sight of her; she’s a spiteful old witch.’
‘She’s your grandmother, lass.’
‘Oh, don’t you start, Henry. I know she’s my grandmother, and I know I’m weighed down by the feelings I have against her. You should understand. Oh, let’s get away.’
As Lizzie stalked towards the door, Henry looked appealingly at Peggy, then followed his wife from the room. And when Emma saw the way in which her mother was looking at Charlie, she realised that the trouble concerning her was not the only one to be contended with, for there were other intrigues occupying the minds of her mother and grandmother.
She almost flounced from the room, to hear the ringing of a bell from above. Lizzie had stopped at the front door and was looking back towards the sitting room, but when Peggy didn’t appear she turned to Emma, saying, ‘You had better go up. And it’s no use looking like that; you’ve got to take your share.’
The words seemed to convulse Emma, for her whole body jerked as she took two steps forward towards her grandmother, demanding, ‘Why? Why should I have to make up for your neglect and Mother’s coming desertion? Well, here’s something for you to ponder on: I’m standing in for neither of you. I’m getting out as soon as possible, and damn a year’s engagement! Do you hear?’
‘God in heaven!’ Lizzie turned and looked at Henry, her eyes wide, her mouth open. ‘I would never have believed it.’
Then from halfway up the stairs the voice cried, ‘Well, you can believe it now, Gran, and think on it.’
When she reached her great-great-grandmother’s door she did not pause even for a moment to calm herself but pushed it open and quickly approached the foot of the bed, asking, ‘Yes?’
Mrs Funnell looked at her, her head to one side; then her mouth twitching, she said, ‘What do you mean by “yes”?’
‘Just what I said, Gran-Gran; what do you want?’
‘I would like my tea, girl, that’s what I want. And may I ask what’s come over you? And at the same time add, how dare you speak to me in this manner!’
For answer Emma said, ‘Mother’s busy at the moment. She’ll bring it up in a short while. Anyway, it isn’t four o’clock yet.’
The old lady turned slightly to her right and hitched herself up on the pillows; then peering at Emma, she said, ‘Come here.’ And when Emma moved up by the side of the bed, she added, ‘What’s happened down there to upset you?’
‘Nothing’s happened…well, I mean, it doesn’t matter what happened down there. But I’ve made up my mind about something: I’m not waiting for the rest of the year before I get married; I’m going to marry when I like and as soon as possible.’
Mrs Funnell leant back tight against her pillows, and her lips went through the process of agitated munching before she exercised her matriarchal control over this youngest member of her family: ‘You’ll do what you’re told. You’ll do as I say.’
‘Oh, but I won’t, Gran-Gran. Great-Gran had to do as you said, and Gran’s had to do as you said, and Mother’s had to do as you said, but I’m a different kettle of fish.’
Mrs Funnell looked up towards the ceiling as if speaking to the Almighty, and she might have been as she said, ‘Dear God! Am I hearing aright?’ Then bringing her gaze down to bear on Emma, she said, ‘You go your own way, girl, and you don’t get a penny of my money.’
‘Blast your money, Gran-Gran! Do you hear? Blast your money! I’m sick of listening to what you’re going to do with your money. You were going to leave it all to Father, weren’t you, to spite Mother and Gran? Then you were going to leave it all to me, provided I was a good girl and did what you said, still to spite Mother and Gran. Well now, I don’t want your money; what I want is liberty and a life of my own, and I’m going to have it. Do you hear?’ Then, as she backed from the bed and saw the old woman beat her breast with her hand, she said, ‘And you needn’t put on any of your
fainting turns for me, either. You’ve got Mother run off her feet through them, but as the doctor said, you’re like an old horse put out to grass; you’ll last for years, nibbling away.’
As quickly as the sense of injustice had urged her down in the hall to make a stand, now it ebbed away as she watched the face on the pillow begin to quiver.
Turning swiftly, she ran from the room and down the stairs and burst into the sitting room, there to bring her mother quickly from Charlie’s arms and to turn on her, saying, ‘Girl!’
‘Never mind “girl”, Mother; I’ve…I’ve upset Gran-Gran. She…she might be having an attack, I don’t know.’
‘What have you been saying?’
‘I said what I wanted to say, what I’m saying to you now: I’m not waiting another year to be married, I’m going to be married as soon as possible, and you can do what you like about it. And…and I told Gran, too, before she left.’
She watched her mother look at Charlie as if she were wanting him to confirm what she was hearing, before thrusting him aside and running from the room.
Mrs Funnell was lying with her eyes closed. Peggy looked at her for a moment, but said nothing; instead, she went to the side table and took a pill from a box and poured out a glass of water, then returned to the bed, saying gently, ‘Here, take this.’
Mrs Funnell opened her eyes and, her voice assuming that of a weak old lady, she said, ‘She went for me, Peggy. She went for me, yelled at me.’
‘What did you say to her to make her yell at you?’
The head moved restlessly on the pillow, and after a moment Peggy said, ‘Lie quiet now. I’ll go and bring your tea up.’
As she made for the door the weak voice came at her, halting her: ‘Peggy?’
The House of Women Page 23
