Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘You really are an amazing girl, Miss – I mean Daisy.’ After a moment’s deliberation Steven said, ‘I could take a quick look at some of the family documents, if you like. It’s strictly against the rules but . . .’

  Daisy was immediately torn. Part of her was thrilled with the idea of learning more about Monty’s family but she understood the risks he would be taking.

  ‘I don’t want you to get into any trouble on my account,’ she told him. ‘Perhaps you’d better not.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, Daisy, but I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.’

  Daisy hesitated. ‘I must admit I’d be interested to know more,’ she confessed.

  He smiled. ‘I won’t promise anything but I’ll see what I can do. It will be our secret.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell a soul!’

  The waitress returned with the poached eggs and saw the mouse pincushion.

  ‘That’s so pretty,’ she said as she set down the plates.

  ‘It’s a present,’ Daisy said proudly, with a glance at Steven.

  The eggs were just how Daisy liked them, without the uncooked white that always spoiled eggs for her. By the time they had finished off the cakes and had a second pot of tea, they reluctantly parted. Steven made no attempt to kiss her but he did hold her hand for a long time and Daisy parted from him with the promise of another meeting ringing in her ears and the precious velvet pincushion clutched tightly in her hand.

  Daisy went straight home to tell her mother all about her time with Steven Anders and her mother listened eagerly without interruption but followed her self-imposed silence with a string of questions. How old was this Steven? Was Daisy sure he was single and not already walking out with another young woman? Were his intentions honourable? When was she going to bring him home so that they could meet him and hopefully approve the friendship?

  Daisy did not tell her mother anything about Steven’s promise to see what he could learn about the Pennington family. That seemed a step too far. But she remained intensely curious and looked forward to learning more about the family with which she was so closely involved.

  ‘So the two of you are meeting up again?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Yes. That is he said so . . . and I believe him.’

  ‘I shall feel a lot happier when we’ve met him, Daisy. You must let him know that. Young men these days sometimes feel it’s their right to take liberties with a young woman and you are very young.’

  ‘Nearly eighteen, Ma!’ Daisy reminded her. ‘You married Dad when you were nineteen.’

  ‘Things were different then, Dais. Things were simpler . . . more straightforward.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look Daisy, there’s something we need to talk about. You do know, Dais, that your pa and me . . . Well, we’ve always done our best by you.’

  Daisy nodded. She was only half listening and her eyes were on the velvet mouse. She would treasure it all her life, she vowed silently, and she would never, never stick pins in it! It was a token of Steven’s love for her. Well, maybe not love. Not yet. But a token of something . . . maybe of his interest in her . . .

  ‘Daisy! Are you listening? This is important.’

  ‘I’m listening, Ma!’ Daisy insisted untruthfully.

  ‘The thing is that we love you, Daisy, as any real mother and father love their children.’ She looked at Daisy earnestly, her face slightly flushed. ‘To us you truly are our daughter. Nothing will ever change that, you see. Nothing can ever change the way we feel about you so you mustn’t think that anything we tell you will alter that.’ She waited for a reaction but when none came she said, ‘Do you understand, Dais?’

  ‘Yes, Ma. I do.’ Daisy pressed the mouse to her lips. I know he loves me! I know he does! she thought. She closed her eyes, wrapped up in her new found joy.

  Her mother laid a shaking hand on Daisy’s shoulder and searched for the right words. ‘Sometimes, Dais, a woman finds it hard to have a child and . . . and cannot have one so she, I mean they – her pa and ma have to . . . to find a child to love and your father and I . . . Are you listening, Daisy?’

  ‘Yes, Ma!’ Daisy glanced at the clock and jumped to her feet. She threw her arms round her mother and said, ‘Say “love to Pa” for me. Tell him he’ll like Steven! You both will.’ But not as much as I do! she thought. ‘I’m going to be late back at work. ’Bye for now.’ She kissed her mother and almost ran from the cottage. Maybe this time next year she would be living with Steven as a married woman! With her face aglow at this wonderful prospect, she hurried back along the lane to see what, if anything, had happened during her absence.

  Behind her in the cottage, her mother rested her arms on the table, laid her head on her arms and began to cry.

  When Tom came home later that day, Martha told him about the new young man in Daisy’s life and spoke about the Penningtons.

  ‘I don’t understand why they are being pestered by this wretched man,’ she told him. ‘I wonder if we ought to take Daisy away from there until the police catch him. Then she could go back.’ She looked at him anxiously as she stirred the stew. ‘She might be in danger.’

  Tom frowned in concentration. ‘We can’t make her, Martha, and you know how determined she can be.’

  ‘Determined? Stubborn, you mean!’

  ‘Well . . . yes. She does dig her heels in sometimes.’ He sighed. It had been a long day and they had got very little work done. The bay had gone lame and they needed both horses to pull the harrow.

  A day wasted meant a day’s money lost and the boss wasn’t too pleased about it although he couldn’t blame Tom. A horse was a finicky creature and could go lame at the drop of a hat!

  He became aware that his wife was looking at him, waiting for an answer to something she had said that he had missed. ‘What’s that again?’ he asked.

  She was ladling stew on to his plate. ‘I said we should never have agreed to let her stay there overnight with old Pennington, they’re a funny lot. But the money’s useful and they’re not too far away and she seems to like it there.’

  He stared hard at her, for the first time noticing her reddened eyes. ‘You been crying? You have! What’s going on, love?’

  ‘It was nothing really but . . .’ She swallowed hard.

  ‘It must be something.’

  ‘It was just . . . I suddenly felt like Daisy was going to leave us before long and I . . . I tried to tell her about the adoption and she wasn’t even listening! All she could talk about was this young man . . . and he’d given her a pincushion like a mouse . . . velvet with a ribbon for a tail. You’d think it was a diamond ring!’ She swallowed. ‘And I thought I was trying so hard and telling it rather well so as it wouldn’t come as a shock –’ suddenly her eyes filled with tears again – ‘and all she could think about was the stupid mouse!’

  Tom hid a smile.

  ‘I’m telling you, Tom, she wasn’t even listening to me! It was so important but she didn’t take a word in and next minute she’d gone dancing off, back to the Penningtons without a care in the world!’

  Tom searched for the right words. ‘Maybe it was for the best.’

  As he feared she seized on them. ‘How for the best exactly?’

  ‘That she didn’t take it all in. I mean she was so happy perhaps it was the wrong time to give her a shock. To bring her down to earth, like.’

  Brushing away her tears, she stared at him. ‘Do you think so, Tom? Really?’

  ‘I reckon so.’ He held his breath.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said hopefully. ‘Better to tell her when she’s a bit calmer, eh?’

  ‘I reckon so.’ Tom handed her a none-too-clean handkerchief. ‘Eat your dinner, love. It’s getting cold.’ He pushed a mouthful of potato into his mouth, watching her warily. One thing he hated was women’s tears. He never knew what to say and whatever he said seemed to come out wrong. If he tried to cheer her up, she needed sympathy. If he offered sympathy it seemed that all she wanted was to be cheered
up. Now he decided to take a chance. ‘Cheer up, lass!’ he advised. ‘You can talk to her some other time. Any rate, most likely some of the words sunk in without her noticing.’

  ‘It’s not an easy thing to talk about, Tom,’ she told him earnestly, pushing food on to her fork. ‘You try. See just how hard it is. It’s so important to get the words right so she isn’t upset. She thinks I’m her ma and I’m not. She thinks you’re her pa—’

  ‘You are her mother, Martha!’ He stopped eating. ‘And so am I – her father, I mean! We’re all she ever had, all her life. She’ll understand. She’s bright, is Dais. She’ll see how lucky she was to come to us who really wanted her. Her real mother didn’t or couldn’t. Who knows or cares? Dais came to us and we’ve loved her every minute and done the best we could for her. She might have gone to an orphanage and been one of dozens of children!’

  ‘But Tom—’

  ‘Eat your dinner!’ The words came out harder than he expected but he knew he was in a strange land where he rarely put a foot right. Like walking across a rain-sodden moor, he thought, and putting your foot in a boggy hole and being sucked under.

  The silence grew and Tom felt the food beginning to stick in his throat but at least she was eating again and he felt hopeful that maybe she was over the worst.

  At last she said, ‘I have a feeling about this Steven Anders fellow. It might be serious between them.’

  He didn’t answer. A ‘Steven Anders fellow’. Was that good or bad, he wondered. To change the subject he said, ‘Those Penningtons – it’s not an uncommon name round here. There was a woman used to come to the farm especially to see the horses and we’d exchange a few words.’ She was listening so he rushed on. ‘Nice woman. A bit highfalutin’ but nice enough. She came every Saturday for eggs and cream and honey. So she said. But always came to see the horses and ask after the family. She knew we had a daughter and she was interested. Christina – that was her name.’ He frowned. ‘No. It wasn’t . . . but summat like that like that. Cassandra! That was it. Or was it? Anyway, she brought a few carrots for the horses. But she was always pleasant. Always asked after Daisy.’

  ‘Doesn’t she still come?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. It was years ago. Died in an accident . . . Had a fall – summat of the sort.’ He could see he had distracted her and felt rather pleased with himself.

  Martha said, ‘Asked after Daisy? You never told me.’

  ‘Nothing to tell, really.’

  Martha sighed then frowned. ‘Come to think of it there’s another Pennington on the far side of Bath – a vicar. Or maybe not.’ She sighed, pushing her unfinished food away. ‘Anyway, if Dais mentions this Steven you’ll know who he is. Be nice about him, Tom.’ She smiled. ‘I know you. Don’t ask too many questions. Let her tell you in her own way.’

  ‘Anything you say, Martha.’ He leaned over and kissed her. ‘And don’t worry about anything. Things’ll work out. They always do.’

  She managed a smile. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

  Hettie took a deep breath and looked her husband squarely in the eyes. ‘Why am I packing? Because I’m going to stay with Dilys for a few days, Albert. She’s moving back to her own house.’

  He glared from the doorway. ‘And when were you going to tell me? Or was I supposed to guess?’

  ‘I started to tell you earlier but you said you were reading and asked if whatever it was could wait! Snapped my head off, if you remember!’ She picked out a pair of black leather shoes and slipped them into a shoe bag. ‘And before you ask me not to go I’ll tell you I’m determined. I can’t let Dilys down now. She’s expecting me.’ Had she packed enough, she wondered. A nightdress, underwear, a dressing gown and slippers. She turned to the dressing table for her hair brush and mirror. Maybe a warm cardigan?

  ‘And when are you coming back?’ He advanced into the bedroom and stood with his arms folded.

  ‘When they catch Stanley and not a moment sooner. I did suggest that we went away for a few days . . . to a hotel or somewhere. That way when he comes for us we would be absent but oh no! You wouldn’t even consider it.’ She straightened up and pushed back a lock of hair. ‘You may not mind being a sitting duck but I’m weaker than you, Albert. The idea of staying here, just waiting for a stone through the window or worse . . . I can’t do it. So I’m going to stay with Dilys until the police have him behind bars.’

  Albert frowned unhappily. He did not care for the idea of a son in prison even though it might be better than a son who was roaming the streets, intent on mischief. Why, he wondered, were women always wanting children? He could not subscribe to the theory that children kept a family together. It certainly didn’t apply in his own case. They were disruptive, expensive – at least Stanley was. The least said about Stanley the better! George was not so bad but Albert could not put his hand on his heart and say he had enjoyed him as a child either although Hettie had been close to the boy. He shook his head ruefully. Stanley had caused a rift between him and Monica . . . With a start he returned to the present.

  ‘You and Dilys will be at each other’s throat in no time,’ he warned. ‘You have never really liked her.’

  ‘Only because she didn’t like me. Cressida was much nicer to me than Dilys was.’

  ‘Cressida was nice to everyone!’

  ‘She was certainly nice to you! And you lapped it up. We all noticed it. Dilys certainly did. She said on one occasion that you were practically ogling her!’

  Albert’s heart gave a small lurch at the memories. ‘If I did she didn’t seem to object!’ he snapped. ‘And Montague was such a dull old stick! Why she ever married him is a mystery to me.’ He walked past her and stared down into the street, trying to hide his discomfort because he had thought no one had noticed his philandering ways. He had had a way with women in those days and had always enjoyed the thrill of the chase. ‘Anyway, that was years ago,’ he said. ‘Water under the bridge.’

  She gave him a poisonous look. ‘If you say so, Albert.’ Riffling through the wardrobe she selected a warm tweed skirt and jacket. ‘Your son is here in Bath to make trouble, Albert, so be on your guard. Lord knows what he means to do but he is here to get some sort of revenge. I had nothing to do with sending him away so I don’t see why I should stay here and be terrified. He might kill you! Have you thought of that. If I stay he might kill us both!’

  Turning, he faced her, leaning back against the window. ‘He’s hardly going to kill anyone, Hettie. He’s not a murderer – just very disturbed. Always has been. Really, Hettie, you do love to exaggerate. Always have.’ He crossed to the door, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘Well, you must do as you wish. I’m not going to try and stop you even if you hope I will.’

  ‘You couldn’t stop me, Albert! Ten minutes and I’ll be gone. I’ve ordered a taxi.’ She surveyed the contents of her case and, satisfied, closed the lid. ‘You could carry this down to the front door for me if you wish.’

  ‘I don’t wish to. Carry it yourself!’

  He made his exit and Hettie listened to his muffled footsteps on the carpet as he made his way along the passage. She had a sudden moment of doubt as she pulled on her coat but she forced it back and reached for the case which was heavier than expected. She dragged it to the top of the stairs and dropped it down, one step at a time, and was at the front step and waiting when the taxi arrived.

  NINE

  The taxi picked up Hettie and then made a detour to Alexander Park to collect Dilys, and the two women drove away together looking vaguely triumphant. Daisy watched them go from the front step and then returned to the kitchen where Monty was busy at the big table, applying polish to his best shoes. The polish, brushes and cloths were neatly arranged on a sheet of The Times and the rest of his shoes waited in a basket at his feet for their turn for attention. Daisy had discovered that keeping Monty happily occupied prevented him from becoming bored and tetchy.

  He glanced up and, referring to Hettie and Dilys, said ‘Good luck to th
em! I’ll give those two three days and then they’ll be squabbling like school children. They’ve always maintained what I saw as a well-mannered truce but they’ve never lived in the same house before.’

  ‘Why should they squabble?’

  He shrugged. ‘Women are funny creatures!’

  ‘Not half as funny as men!’ Daisy picked up a finished shoe and nodded. ‘Quite a nice shine!’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am!’ He grinned. ‘Maybe I could get a job as a shoeshine boy!’

  ‘A job? You don’t need a job!’

  ‘How do you know what I need, Daisy? Just because I live in a biggish house it doesn’t mean I’m rich. As a matter of fact I shall have to send for Mr Desmond soon and have a chat with him about the family money. It might just see me out but the house needs some maintenance which I can’t put off forever.’

  ‘You could send for Steven Anders!’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s too young and probably inexperienced. You said he’s only been with the firm for a few months. No, it will have to be Mr Desmond or his partner.’ He tutted as he reached into the box at his feet and found a sturdy pair of muddy boots. ‘It’s a mistake, Daisy, to live too long.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember that!’ She watched him reach for the brown polish. ‘You can’t put polish over mud!’ she scolded. ‘You’ll have to wipe off the mud and then let them dry before you polish them.’ Seeing his look of dismay she said, ‘Give them to me. I’ll do it.’

  He surrendered them willingly. ‘I can tell that Hettie is becoming impatient. She passed comment several times when she last telephoned, hinting about finances and hinting at Cressida’s money but I told her – Cressida’s money is not family money. Cressida brought money into the family and she managed it herself. I didn’t need it and later she insisted that she had plans for it.’

  ‘What sort of plans?’ Daisy asked, intrigued.

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me but she left a will that was to be read at the end of 1902. It’s always been a bit of a mystery.’

  Daisy stared at him. ‘But that’s quite soon! It’s 1902 and almost November.’