But now, both hate and love had emptied themselves from her. She was feeling utterly degraded and dirty.
Oh yes, dirty; and she said it aloud, shaking her head from side to side, 'I feel dirty, dirty, dirty.'
'Don't talk like that.' Bruce put his hand on her shoulder. 'You made a mistake in thinking he was someone he wasn't: a young god, because of his look and his voice. I, too, in a way loved him for his looks and voice, but as Max said, he isn't worth a spit. You have lost what you thought was love and I have lost a long-time friend.'
She now raised her head and looked up at him and, her voice breaking, she said, 'I'm . . . I'm sorry, Bruce.
I'm sorry for everything. Oh yes, I am. I've been stupid.
I am stupid, and ignorant. I only know I've got what I deserved and that I'll have to carry the shame to the grave, as do all those who go my way through ignorance and stupidity and silly dreams.'
'You'll carry nothing to the grave, girl; you have both of us. Your child will be born here and you'll have everything that money can buy. We're no longer short.
And there'll be still more if I am to go by the letter I received last week from Mr Claire. As you know I have to go into Newcastle on Wednesday. And so your baby will be born in comfort, and we'll be a family.'
'That we will,' agreed Max. 'Indeed we will. Bbbut now you go up and put your head down for a while; have a little rest.'
At this she rose quickly from the chair, and stood for a moment taking in a deep breath before she said, 'No.
No; I'll do some baking. That's the best thing.' Then turning to Bruce, she smiled weakly as she said, 'I'll try some of those recipes in that book.'
'Aye. Yes, do that. That will be nice.'
Bruce turned and made for the door now, beckoning Max to follow him; and when they were outside he said,
'She must have heard every word to go on the way she did, but I'd say it's brought her to her senses. What do you think?'
'As you s-s-say, yes. There wasn't much lost l-llove in all she said to him, but more like pain. Aye, yes, pain. You know something, Bruce?'
'No.'
'She should have a bed, proper bed when the child c-c-comes. She needs a bed.'
'But where are we going to put a bed? She won't have it in that room, now she's got it so nicely titivated.'
'Well, you c-c-can't see her bringing a child into the world under that r-r-roof, can you?'
Bruce said nothing for a time, but then asked, 'What's brewing in that mind of yours?'
'Another room built on to back towards the pathway, and a n-n-nice big window. Proper built this time, with fireplace.'
'Well, we didn't make a bad job of the other one, did we?'
'Rough walls plastered,' Max went on.
Bruce nodded and said, 'Yes, she will need a bed.
Good idea. That's what we'll do. But I think we'd better have a little help, at least for the plastering, roof and windows.'
Max stopped and, a bright smile lighting up his face, he said, 'Wood floor and c-c-carpet on, and proper furniture, and l-l-looking glass,' and he went into a grotesque pose of admiring himself, at which they both burst out laughing.
The laughter came to Jinnie in the kitchen as she prepared for the baking session. Her hands became still on the table, and when her head began to droop she knew she was about to cry, until she heard a stern voice within her saying, 'No more of it,' and as her hands became busy once again she had the strange feeling that time had slipped back and that she was the girl she had been during that first year in this cottage, full of gratitude to the nice man called Bruce; and being that girl, she could now face Miss Caplin.
Jinnie was seven months pregnant and feeling very well.
She couldn't describe herself as happy but content, yes.
Everything in the house was running smoothly. At night she was sleeping in a bed on a flock mattress and in between sheets and two pillows, their ticks covered with cases of white linen. The hap on the bed was made of a primrose print, but what was more astounding, she could step out on to a blue carpet that almost covered the entire floor. In the scullery there was a large tin bath hanging on the wall and on a side bench was an innovation, a real godsend; a wringer with two narrow rollers. It wasn't very wide but it pressed out most of the water from the wet clothes.
Life was good, except on those nights when sleep evaded her and the feeling of being degraded and worthless drove her mind into the depths.
Outside, too, the farm was prospering for not only did they now have two cows but twice the number of pigs and chickens, which had meant the building of new sties and runs. And what was more, Bruce wore a new tweed suit when he attended the main markets.
This alone would have caused comment in the valley; but the building of another room for, as some referred to her, that young slut up there, and it being furnished with a van-load of new pieces had caused the tongues to wag unceasing about the size of Hal Shaleman's back pay. There was something fishy there, if you asked them.
It was very evident who had fathered that one's bairn, but why wasn't he marrying her?
At the same time, the nearby countryside was murmuring words of sympathy to Richard's young bride, who had lost her baby and was still very ill, having under-gone an operation when she miscarried, the result of which was she would never bear another child. Such a tragedy, for they had been so happy. And why did it have to happen to the likes of her when that tinker's girl up there, her belly sticking out a mile, so it was said, was as healthy as only those of her tribe could be. What had happened lately to that young bride was surely enough to drive her out of her mind.
And so thought May Baxton-Powell. She said so to her brother: 'Something will have to be done with her, Richard. I think Father should get another man in to see to her, a specialist from Newcastle, because there must be other women who react in the same way after what she has gone through.'
He remained silent where he sat at the other side of the breakfast table. His parents had left the breakfast-room, his father to his study, his mother to her room at the far end of the house, and for which she was thankful, for she was weary with trying to pacify the girl, as she now thought of her daughter-in-law. It had been a great sorrow for them all when Lillian had lost the child, and she had told her that they were all suffering, but that one must face the trials that God put on one's shoulders, and that if you prayed fervently to Him, He always gave you the strength to bear whatever burden you were carrying.
She had been very disappointed at the way her daughter-in-law had reacted to this tragedy: she would not listen to reason; all one could get out of her was that she wanted her baby. It was really a stupid way to go on, when she had been made fully aware that she could
neither have her baby nor have another. She herself had explained all this to her and what had been the response?
Oh, hysteria, dreadful hysteria, so much so that she did not go and visit her for a number of days, but left her to the nurses. The stupidity of it was that the girl seemed to be blaming her for her loss. Even now the only one she would put up with for any time was May. May seemed to have a calming effect on her. Well, she was glad somebody did because she was becoming tired of the whole business. It seemed to her that the girl was really losing her mind, yet Dr Beattie spoke of it as a natural reaction, assuring them she would come out of it, and telling them he had suggested adopting . . .
In the dining-room May was saying, 'How do you feel about adoption?'
The adoption idea had been sprung upon Richard yesterday, and his first thought had been: Oh no, he couldn't see himself playing father to somebody else's brat. No; what he wanted to do was get her away out of the Bible-chanting, sanctimonious atmosphere and to the open free-living air of Paris, or anywhere else, for that matter.
It was as he had lain awake in the early hours of this morning that an idea had come to him. But straightaway he had pooh-poohed it as an impossibility, because it would entail the disclosure of his escapade, an
d he could just imagine his parents' reaction to that. But now it was being revived by May's bringing up the matter of adoption again.
And when she repeated, 'I said how do you feel about adoption?' he looked across at her and said, 'I've been thinking about it a lot, May, and it could be the answer.
Yet there are others to be considered.' He now rose quickly from his chair and walked across the room to the serving hatch, and pulled the door back quickly as if aiming to surprise someone standing on the other side.
Although the hatch did not open directly into the kitchen, there was a passage and opposite was the kitchen door.
There was no-one standing beyond the hatch, although Eliza Fenwick, the second housemaid was coming through the doorway from the kitchen and she said hastily, 'Were you wantin' somethin', Mister Richard?' and he replied tartly, 'No. No, nothing,'
and with that, he closed the hatch none too gently before going back to the table to stand near May's chair and say, 'There is a way out. I have something to tell you. If I ... we go the right way about it I can adopt my own child.'
May had twisted around on the seat of the chair and she now stared up at him. Then with the flat of her hand she pushed him further away so that she could rise to her feet, and what she said now was, 'You could adopt your own child!'
'Sh! Sh! No need to shout it out.'
'Well, I ask you, Richard.' Her voice was low now.
'You spring a thing like that on me; your own child.
Who is . . .? Where is your own child?'
He drew in a long breath and said, 'It isn't born yet; she must be seven months' pregnant.'
'Who, in the name of God! is seven months'
pregnant?'
'Sh! woman. I've told you, keep your voice down.
These walls have ears and you don't want to bring them down about my head, do you?'
'Well, Richard, all I can say is, the house'll come down about your head if what you're saying is true: that someone's seven months' pregnant and she's carrying your child. Who is it?' She paused. 'Oh, my God!' She put a hand over her mouth. 'Not . . . not that girl up there, not that gypsy piece?'
'She's not a gypsy piece; but that's beside the point; it was a moment of madness.'
'A moment of madness,' she repeated. 'I can see now what drew you up those hills ... that little slut. And after promising Mother and Father to be more circumspect!'
He sighed deeply and said, 'I'm listening to a woman's point of view, I know. Well, be she gypsy or whatever, at least to me she was a very beautiful and attractive girl; and don't forget that my wedding had been postponed again, so what with one thing or another I was frustrated.'
Her voice was loud again as she said, 'You were frustrated! We all get frustrated. I am frustrated, but I don't go and give myself to some farm labourer as you stooped to the lowest possible grade of girl . . .
woman. She wasn't even a decent servant!' 'Will you, for God's sake, May, keep your voice down!'
'Well, if you wish me to keep my voice down, you I should've taken me out into the wilds to make this shocking revelation, because I cannot believe it; and if she's seven months' gone this must have happened just a month or so before you were married.'
'Yes. Yes, May, it did; and it was the outcome of...
as I said, frustration.'
Of a sudden she sat down again and, placing her hands flat on the table, she looked at him; and more to herself than to him she said, 'The things that happen in this house, and are likely to go on happening if you carry out your plan. Now what do you propose to do?'
'She'll be having my child, and as its father I'll have a claim to it. I'll go up there and put it to her ... to them, because the other two up there are acting like her jailers.'
*
'And
if you get it, do you think Lillian will accept it?'
'Yes, after I've explained it to her, I'm sure she will.
At the moment she wants a child, any child.'
'Well, you've got that cut and dried in your mind, but from a woman's point of view, I think you'll be in for a rough time. But then, myself, I'm not so concerned about Lillian's reaction - wives have to obey - but have you thought about the parents? This will break them.
The Church and respectability is their lifeline.'
He walked towards the fireplace, shaking his head and saying, 'Don't I know it! Respectability and the Church.
I have to ask myself, what have I done to deserve all this?'
She was on her feet again and, moving towards him she hissed,' Oh, don't you come that, Richard BaxtonPowell.
You sound just like Father. You know what you've done to deserve all this. It's all of your own making, because nobody was so well looked after and pampered, and given so many chances, as were you.
As I've said before, and I'll say again, you've never earned a penny in your life. You haven't even sold a picture to provide for your paints. Everything has come from Father.' Her voice dropping now, she went on, 'At times he is not all I would desire as a parent, but
he has stood by you and supported you. I tell you one thing, whatever happens up there in those hills must be kept absolutely secret, because were it to leak out it would kill them both. They couldn't live under that disgrace, that slut and you, their son.'
'Well, May' - his voice was flat now - 'when they do know, I don't think they could take a stronger attitude than you're taking now towards me. I want support at this time, not criticism, and nobody knows better than I do just what I owe them. But let me tell you, I've had I
to pay for what I owe them by being this dutiful son.
That's on the surface, because underneath I don't feel anything like dutiful. And one more thing, and it is true, I am more suited to the life in Paris than I have been here, or ever will be, married or not, and if I get my way, and I will, Lillian is going back with me as soon as possible, once this other business is settled.'
'Settled, you say?' Her eyes were wide, her eyebrows arched. 'Do you think they're going to welcome your bastard child, no matter what, or how you will persuade Lillian to accept it? They'll both die if they know you've had anything to do with it. Adoption, yes, all right; but you must not let them know it is yours. Do you realise that?'
'Yes. Yes, perhaps. I had thought to clear the air and tell them everything. But you're right: it will be better to put it over merely as an adoption to pacify Lillian.' His face suddenly brightened. 'It could be the same with her: I needn't tell her the facts, need I?' He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath and said,
'Thank God.' Then he touched her face gently, saying,
'What would I do without you, May? You've always straightened things out for me.'
Her colour rose; and then she said softly, 'Oh, Richard. Richard. I care for you. I've only ever had you to worry about ... or love.'
7
Jinnie had received the letter yesterday morning. Peter Locke had picked it up from the postman and delivered it to her at the door, and she had disappointed him by not opening it on the spot. Only once before had she seen her name written on an envelope, and this one plainly read 'Miss J. Howlett', with the address of the farm underneath.
After reading it she had called Bruce and Max into the kitchen and to them she said, 'I've received this letter from him.' There was no need to explain who 'him' was.
'He wants to come and see me on some special business.
He has named the day as tomorrow at eleven o'clock in the morning. He says he wishes it to be private; but I'll see him only if both of you are present.'
'What d'you think he might want?'
None of them had any idea at that moment, but during the hours that followed their minds jumped from one thing to another, all seemingly impossible.
During the past week a number of events had occurred, all portending good. The main one had taken place yesterday when, for the last time, Bruce had been summoned to the solicitors' office. On his previous visit, weeks earlier, the sugges
tion was put to him that they sell the pieces of jewellery separately, that they had a London client interested in the bracelet, and that he had offered a realistic price. To this he had said,
'Yes, go ahead. Do what you think is best.' And yesterday he had again sat at one side of the desk and looked from Mr Claire to Mr Fowler, who actually had his head up and a satisfied smile on his face as he said, 'It was proved once again in our business that it is never wise to rush things, because if you do you are likely to rush past the doors that fate and opportunity open for you.'
Mr Claire had nodded his agreement and, addressing Bruce, he had said, 'The rings and the necklace were also disposed of separately.'
Then, tapping the butt end
of his pen on a sheet of paper covered in figures, and his voice assuming its business-like tone, he said, 'You will be aware that because of the nature of these deals, there was a good deal of toing and froing in person, including two journeys to London made by Mr Fowler.'
He now lifted his head and, looking directly at Bruce, he said quietly, 'It is wiser to do this kind of business in person than through statements on paper. And so, although our expenses have been high, they do reflect how we managed to obtain realistic prices. I am sure, when you know the result, you will be as happy with it as we are.'
Mr Claire now lifted up the paper from his desk. 'I will put it like this,' he said, giving a tight little smile: 'Your share in the proceedings amounts to seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ten shillings.'
When he stressed the ten shillings, Bruce had the strongest desire to burst out laughing. And when his eyes filled with water, he didn't know whether or not its cause was through laughter or tears.
Both men were now regarding Bruce with expressions most kindly, and it was Mr Fowler who uttered the one word: 'Satisfied?'
'Oh, sir, I don't know what to say, except that I am so grateful. This will set me up for life. I shall be able to build up a decent farm: get a good herd and buildings. Quite candidly, I cannot believe it has happened to me, and especially through my brother.
And I must confess that, at times, my conscience has pricked me when I wondered just how he came across all that money and the jewels. In the ordinary way, he would have had to gamble a lot.'
The Tinker's Girl Page 32
