Eden Falls

by Sanderson, Jane

  Parkinson, conducting a tour of duty through the house, gazed at it now in appreciation; it was as if they’d harnessed the sunshine, he thought, and this was so uncharacteristically whimsical that he reddened, even though he was alone. He busied himself at once, patrolling the perimeter of the gracious room, pleased with the gleam of the parquet floor and the glow of the lighting. Not so very long ago it had been all candles and oil lamps, in here and throughout the house. Then, they’d kept a boy whose only job was to trim the wicks and fill the lamps, and he’d never had an idle moment. Jimmy, Parkinson thought, that was his name. The lad walked miles in the course of a working week. Now one flick of a brass switch and lo, there was light. In this room, and the dining room, the old sconces were still on the walls, although the scorch marks left by the flames were long gone, painted over. The butler stood, lost in the past, remembering the hunt balls, the Christmas balls, the birthday balls. He thought of Lady Henrietta at eighteen, her coming-out ball held not at Fulton House but here at Netherwood Hall, which was perfectly right and proper. Two hundred and fifty young guests, the blur of silk and satin, the windows flung wide to cool the dancers, the dear, departed sixth earl and the then Lady Netherwood watching the proceedings with quiet satisfaction and thanking him, Parkinson, very especially for his tireless quest for perfection. Those were the days; the family complete, the house in its pomp. The past was a happier place than the present, he felt, and the future, in the hands of a young earl and a flighty countess, was worryingly unpredictable. Parkinson enjoyed predictability; it was a very undervalued quality. Outside, the bell in the cupola struck midday, reminding him that time waited for no man, and especially not for butlers. ‘Ah well,’ he said out loud, ‘better get on.’ But he stood still, fixed to the spot by nostalgia and something akin to sadness, or regret.

  There were four doors to the ballroom, and one of them opened now to admit Mrs Powell-Hughes, who looked extremely perky, and a little bit smug. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you. Lady Henrietta looks likely to join us in Cowes.’

  The very best type of good news – just like the very worst bad – comes quite out of the blue, and these tidings were so entirely unexpected that the butler clapped his hands to his mouth and the housekeeper laughed.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Sure as I can be.’

  It struck Mr Parkinson now that as head of the household staff he would usually have been the first to hear any developments regarding the family. He said, ‘And how do we know this, Mrs Powell-Hughes?’ as if he doubted the truth of it, or the reliability of the source. The housekeeper pursed her lips in irritation and said, ‘I can assure you, Mr Parkinson, that I’m not peddling idle rumour,’ and then she paused for a worrying moment, as if she might tell him no more, so he swiftly reassured her that he had meant to imply no such thing.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, mollified. ‘I saw Mrs Sykes in Netherwood and she’s visited Lady Henrietta in prison and then again in the infirmary.’

  The butler winced at these details; the specifics of Lady Henrietta’s whereabouts caused him pain.

  ‘She’s thin as a lath, apparently,’ Mrs Powell-Hughes went on. ‘Not herself at all.’

  ‘But she’s home?’

  ‘Not as such. There’s a bit of paperwork, legalities I expect. But’ – she hesitated, trying to remember what Anna had said – ‘the prime minister has chosen to be merciful.’

  ‘We might do well to wait until the earl confirms the news, however,’ said Mr Parkinson, asserting, albeit in a small way, his seniority. ‘That is, without wishing to question the authority of Mrs Sykes in this matter, we perhaps should keep it to ourselves?’ He did wonder, privately, what Anna Sykes could possibly have to do with the sorry situation, or why she might be in a position to predict an outcome. Mrs Powell-Hughes seemed to know better, though.

  ‘Oh, if Anna says so, it’ll be so,’ she said rather breezily, and bobbed across the room to the door with a distinct spring in her step. ‘Anyway,’ she said, pausing on the threshold, ‘she spoke to Mr Asquith, so she should know.’

  Mrs Powell-Hughes had been in Pickering’s, ordering blue and white ticking, when she bumped into Anna, who used a draper’s shop like other people used a library; she came for the peace, and to think. This morning she had been contemplating the vagaries of life over a rack of jewel-coloured slubbed silks: a boldly optimistic order by the young Mr Pickering – whose father, old Mr Pickering, had always thought mostly of worsteds and wool flannel – in this town of working-class housewives.

  Mrs Powell-Hughes, seeing Anna, had voiced her concerns, sotto voce, about Daniel MacLeod, and Anna had reassured her that she was here, now, for a few days and would be looking after him. Lighter of heart, relieved of her imagined obligation, the housekeeper had asked if Anna was thinking of making herself an evening gown out of garnet silk. Anna, surprised, had said, ‘No, why do you ask?’ which had thrown Mrs Powell-Hughes, since the younger woman had the fabric between finger and thumb and was rubbing it speculatively.

  ‘Oh! I see,’ Anna had said. ‘No, no, I’m not buying.’ She let the cloth drop. ‘I just like it in here. It’s soothing.’ And she smiled and shrugged, as if to say, There’s your explanation, do with it what you will.

  Mr Pickering, at the counter, looked crestfallen. If the likes of Mrs Sykes weren’t tempted by the silks, he wondered if anyone would be.

  ‘Beautiful colour on you,’ he said. ‘It’s not everybody could wear it, but you could.’ He was known to have an eye, the young Mr Pickering; his opinion was valued. Also, he was the only shopkeeper in Netherwood to wear a three-piece suit to work, and a necktie with matching handkerchief. This, while conferring status upon him and earning respect, also – in truth – made him feel out of his element here. Sometimes he dreamed of moving lock, stock and barrel to Sheffield.

  ‘No time for dressmaking, Mr Pickering,’ Anna said, crushing his hopes, and then, because she saw his disappointment, she said she might make some cushion covers and bought two yards. She left the shop with Mrs Powell-Hughes, and together they strolled along King Street, which was how the housekeeper came to learn the news about Lady Henrietta and the part Anna had played in her deliverance. It had just been a letter, she said; but in the end, it had been delivered in person to Mr Asquith.

  ‘Never! At Parliament? Did your husband take it?’

  ‘No,’ said Anna levelly. ‘At Downing Street, and I took it.’ This had seemed even more remarkable to the housekeeper, whose eyes widened in wonder. Anna, however, remained perfectly casual. ‘I hadn’t expected to see him,’ she said, ‘which is why I put it all in a letter. I was going to leave it with the constable on the doorstep, without much hope of it ever being seen, but then the door opened and someone I knew stepped out, and he showed me in. Mr Asquith was extremely pleasant, although he’s very angry with the suffragettes. Still, he listened to me most obligingly.’

  ‘Hang on, who came out?’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes, struggling to keep up. ‘Who showed you in?’

  ‘Oh, a man I know: Sir William de Lisle. We painted his summerhouse. Wasn’t that a stroke of luck? He’s something in the Colonial Office.’

  ‘Well well,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Fancy that.’ She was beginning to feel rather parochial. Her own world was so very small compared to Anna’s.

  ‘Yes, very fortuitous.’ She seemed to be stopping at that, so Mrs Powell-Hughes pressed her further; what had she said to the prime minister?

  ‘Oh, well, just that the best way to keep the WSPU out of the newspapers was to let Lady Henrietta go. She was becoming a martyr to the cause, you see.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Mr Asquith finds them maniacal,’ Anna said. ‘He’s sick of being pelted with missiles, he said.’

  The housekeeper tutted. ‘He would be, yes.’

  ‘But he agreed with me
that the present publicity is bad for the government and good for the suffragettes.’

  ‘Did he?’ There was a respectful pause while Mrs Powell-Hughes digested the information. It seemed astounding to her that Anna could tell the tale in such a nonchalant manner, as if recounting a conversation with the postman or the butcher. Thinking this made her ask, ‘So, were you nervous?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Anna’s mind had drifted again, to Eve, and to Daniel.

  ‘Talking to the prime minister, I mean? Were you quaking in your boots? I should’ve been.’ She laughed; she felt nervous at the mere thought of it.

  Anna looked at her askance. ‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes. Then Anna turned the conversation to other matters, which occupied their walk to Turnpike Lane, where their paths diverged. It didn’t escape Mrs Powell-Hughes’s attention, however, that instead of walking briskly towards Netherwood Common and Ravenscliffe, Anna dawdled and checked her silver fob, and this was all done with purpose, as if she expected someone to join her. And then – this was just visible, through a break in the terrace on Watson Street – the housekeeper saw a young man, black-haired and coffee-skinned, striding towards Anna with the type of broad, open, charming smile that must surely bathe the recipient in warmth. Mrs Powell-Hughes thought she had seen him before – he was conspicuous enough, heaven knew – but she couldn’t place him or name him. It vexed her that she wouldn’t be able to quiz Anna directly, without betraying her own somewhat covert behaviour, and all the way back to Netherwood Hall she racked her brains, but his identity eluded her.

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ said Sarah Pickersgill, who had shoved the kitchen tabby off the kitchen step and was taking two minutes from the tyranny of pickling and bottling.

  ‘If I described to you a handsome young man with an exotic complexion…’

  ‘I’d tell you it was Mr Oliver of Whittams,’ Sarah said obligingly. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s in Netherwood,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes.

  ‘I could ’ave told you that, an’ all,’ said Sarah. ‘They’ve a colliery at Dreaton Bridge, where my brother lives. They come up from time to time, Mr Oliver or Mr Whittam. Keep an eye on things, like.’

  Mrs Powell-Hughes lowered herself on to the step because it looked so pleasant in the sunshine, and Sarah knew so many interesting things.

  ‘He seemed very pleased to see Mrs Sykes,’ she said meaningfully.

  Sarah raised a worldly eyebrow. ‘’e’s gorgeous,’ she said.

  ‘Sarah!’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Does he know Mrs Sykes well, do you suppose?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Silas Whittam, Eve MacLeod, Anna Sykes, Hugh Oliver – there’s your connections. I expect they know each other well enough, yes. This step’s a right suntrap, int it?’

  ‘It is. I can see why the cats like it.’

  They sat on, wilfully and uncharacteristically idle, in plain view of the estate offices across the courtyard where the bailiff, a diligent oddball named Absalom Blandford, twitched and fumed at their audacious time-wasting, and jotted down their conduct in his special ledger, under the day’s date and with the precise time recorded alongside.

  Chapter 40

  Like a pair of bookends, Enoch and Amos sat side by side in the sunshine, watching boaters on the Serpentine from underneath the brims of their hats. They both wore pewter-grey Homburgs – neither would be seen dead in anything made of straw – so each perspired gently around the hatband and felt the occasional bead of sweat breaking for freedom towards the collar. They didn’t have a lot to say. They were both brooding, pondering the consequences of recent events: in Enoch’s case, entirely political, in Amos’s, wholly personal. Their expressions repelled those passers-by who might have thought of sitting too. They looked stern, in their contemplative state: as if they might judge a fellow and find him lacking.

  For his part, Amos was considering the irony of being back in London now that Anna was in Ardington. He’d been called down on party business and he felt a small stab of shame – not for the first time – at the drama he’d made of trying to fetch her home, and then the drama, again, when she’d gone to Asquith – Asquith, of all people! – on an errand for the earl. He had raged, as if her sole intention had been to betray his principles: as if he was the centre of the universe and all actions were significant only so far as they related to him. Anna had heard him out in white-faced, dignified silence, then had withdrawn to pack a suitcase. They had travelled north together, in a train carriage so full of their mutual discontent that there was barely room for themselves. Later, in the sanctuary of his old office at the miners’ union building in Barnsley, he’d had a talking-to from Enoch. It was high time that Amos conquered the black dog of his temper, his friend had said: Send it packing otherwise you’ll drive her away. His words had sounded overblown and theatrical at the time, but now, in the clear light of a summer’s afternoon and with a hundred and seventy miles between him and Anna, it seemed like sound advice.

  On the water, young men and women larked about in wooden boats and their laughter bounced across the lake like skimmed stones. To Amos there seemed no point to their activity; what was the purpose of a boat on a body of water that went nowhere? He thought this first, then he asked it out loud.

  ‘Merriment,’ Enoch said.

  ‘I’d want a river, me.’

  Enoch didn’t reply.

  ‘On a river,’ Amos said, ‘you get somewhere. T’landscape changes, t’river widens, there are mills, bridges, villages, towns, all that sort o’ thing. This,’ he said, gesturing towards the hilarity on the lake, ‘is just going round in circles.’

  ‘Very apt,’ Enoch said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That. Going round in circles.’

  ‘Well, they are.’

  ‘And so are we, except we’re ’avin’ a lot less fun than that lot.’

  Amos fell silent. He was supposed to be the pessimist, Enoch the optimist; he hated it when Enoch lost his pep. How could he, Amos, fight the good fight without Enoch’s wilful, stubborn buoyancy?

  ‘It’s an ’iatus, that’s all,’ Amos said. ‘A short interruption to our upward progress.’ He tried to put a spring in his words, a jokey lilt, but it sounded stilted and unconvincing; certainly, it was uncharacteristic.

  Enoch snorted. ‘More like a bloody big brick wall.’

  ‘Claptrap,’ said Amos, reverting to type. ‘There’s no brick wall, and don’t you be building one.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Enoch said flatly. ‘It’s not of my making.’

  ‘They will deliver less than they promise,’ Amos said. He was quoting directly from one of Enoch’s Fabian Society pamphlets. ‘The Liberals, ultimately, will fail the working classes, because at heart it is the party of compromise – Enoch Wadsworth, The Impoverished Liberal Legacy, 11th April 1909.’

  If Amos expected a smile he was disappointed. ‘All well and good,’ Enoch said, ‘but if this budget of Lloyd George’s delivers even ’alf of what it promises, we’ll be pushed so far to t’margins of politics that we might as well join t’ighland Land League and start campaigning for crofters’ rights.’

  ‘Good cause that,’ Amos said. ‘Except we don’t want an independent Scotland. We need Scotland.’

  Enoch tilted up the brim of his hat and let the sun fall on his face, which was pallid and softly lined: the face of a scholar, Amos always thought. It was hard to imagine that Enoch had ever worked underground, except that he had a way of heaving his shoulders when he breathed, and when he coughed he sounded as if he was trying to bring up half a lifetime of coal dust. Amos could tell, now, that his friend was cogitating; his political uncertainties never lasted very long.

  ‘The problem, as I see it, is one of faith and respect,’ Enoch said.

  This was better. Amos waited as Enoch formed his thoughts.

  ‘Faith in our own future as a viable political party, and respect for ourselves
as a radical force entirely independent of t’Liberals.’

  There was a pause, a thinking silence.

  ‘We’ve fallen into a trap set years ago by Gladstone,’ Enoch said. ‘We’ve been patronised by t’Liberals, we’ve been grateful for t’crumbs they’ve thrown, stepping back for us ’ere and there so we can fight seats they don’t need. We’ve been used, in effect, as a gauge of working-class opinion, nowt more.’

  Enoch turned and looked at Amos. ‘They don’t feel threatened by us. They don’t feel us nipping at their ’eels.’

  ‘Their folly, then,’ Amos said, taking his cue. ‘And our triumph will be all t’sweeter when it comes, for being completely unexpected.’

  ‘Soldier on,’ Enoch said. ‘We mun soldier on and stay true to our founding principles. From now on, we fight every by-election, irrespective o’ MacDonald and ’is Liberal appeasement. We educate t’unions so they follow t’miners and affiliate wi’ Labour. We push for a sea change in our way o’ thinking, so that every Labour MP sees ’imself in government, not forever agitating for change from t’fringes.’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ Amos said. ‘And amen.’

  ‘One day, we’ll run this country…’

  ‘…fair and square…’

  ‘…without Ramsay MacDonald and ’is Lib-Lab deals.’

  They turned to each other and grinned, because they’d enjoyed this conversational journey before, and it always led them towards a better frame of mind. Then they shook hands, as if sealing a deal, and individually, privately, tamped down the fear that it was all pie in the sky.