A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  He fell silent for a moment. “I’ve never asked myself that question.”

  Rosalind pressed her fork into her tartlet for wont of anything else to do. What was she to say? She rather agreed with her mother but felt they had not been acquainted with Mr. Pearce long enough to be inserting themselves into his family dynamics.

  Was this what she could expect of herself twenty-three years from now? Did all older women feel obliged to share their opinions with such shattering directness?

  To her great relief, her mother said, “Forgive me if I’ve pushed too hard, Mr. Pearce. It’s just that I have only recently learned to believe in miracles, and I would wish one for you. But I shall speak no more of it.”

  He nodded. “I promise to think on your advice.”

  “Good enough!” she said and turned to Rosalind. “You’re very quiet, dear.”

  “Am I, now?” Rosalind said with a benign smirk that made her mother and Mr. Pearce laugh.

  They chatted on, mostly about favorite books. At length, he pushed back his chair and said with seeming reluctance, “Thank you both for a lovely evening.”

  Rosalind led him to the kitchen to collect Jinny.

  “Miss Shipsey has been giving you treats, has she?” he said.

  “Just a few,” Coral admitted. “And then a few more.”

  “Will you need to be carried?” Rosalind asked Jinny, scratching behind the dog’s ears.

  “Please don’t give her ideas,” Mr. Pearce said. “I’m certain I’m as full as she is.”

  Past the porch, the sky was black and starless. She was glad he had brought a lantern. “I apologize for my mother’s persistence.”

  “There is no need to apologize,” he said. “Unlike the gentleman you so wisely stopped inviting for dinner, I’m aware of how little I know. I’m grateful for counsel from those with my best interests at heart.”

  Rosalind smiled and offered her hand. “Good night, Mr. Pearce. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  “Very good.” He took her hand in both of his, then hesitated. “If you wonder why I don’t ask to sit with you during church . . .”

  “No,” she cut in, though the question had crossed her mind.

  “It’s just that gossip is the main entertainment here. It’s best, in my mind, to wait a bit. But if I’m wrong . . .”

  “You’re not,” she said, meaning it. They still knew each other so little and did not need the pressure of other people’s expectations.

  “But may I write to you at Cheltenham?”

  “Yes,” she said, glad for the darkness, for surely her face glowed.

  On Sunday, Mr. Pearce arrived just before the opening hymn and slipped into the back pew. Rosalind sent a glance over her shoulder and saw that he was looking at her. He smiled.

  Afterward, he waited outdoors, Jinny at his side, to trade greetings with her, Mother, and Mrs. Deamer, and to again wish her a safe journey.

  “He’s such a nice man,” Mrs. Deamer said on their way out of the yard.

  “Miss Kent?”

  Noble Clark’s voice. Rosalind turned, hoping Jude had not heard. But he obviously had and sent her a maddening smile from the near distance.

  “Good morning, Miss Kent. Might I have a word with you?”

  “Why, certainly, Mr. Clark,” she replied, looping her arm through her mother’s on one side and Mrs. Deamer’s on the other, just in case either had any thought of wandering away. She did not have to glance sideways to see the glint in Mother’s eyes. And she knew in her heart that Coral and Amy were watching.

  His smile exposed his multitude of teeth. “Will you walk later? I could do with some exercise myself.”

  “How kind of you,” Rosalind said. “But I’m afraid I shall be staying close to home today. I leave for school in the morning, so there is much to do.”

  The fact was that she had planned to walk and resented being forced to abandon doing so in order to be truthful.

  “Leave?” His eyes dulled a little, even though his smile still stretched across his teeth. “Will you return soon?”

  “Not until half-term break in late May.”

  “May I write to you?”

  “I do love ‘It is Well With My Soul,’” Mother cut in. “I’m glad you chose that hymn.”

  Mrs. Deamer jumped in as well. “The story behind it is so moving.”

  “Why, thank you,” Mr. Clark said, lowering his lashes. “I give all credit to Christ.”

  Christ would have sung in tune, Rosalind thought. “If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Clark, I must hasten home.”

  “Um . . . yes,” he sputtered but pressed on. “May I write?”

  “I’m afraid schoolwork dominates my time,” she replied as gently as possible. “Good day to you, Mr. Clark.”

  Just before turning onto Fore Street, they heard Coral’s voice.

  “Miss Kent?”

  Rosalind paused and turned, as did her mother and Mrs. Deamer.

  Panting, Coral caught up with them.

  “I’m sorry for Noble,” she said.

  “I’m sorry too,” Rosalind said as they fell into step. “I assure you, I’ve done nothing to encourage him.”

  “Of course not,” Coral said, giving her a sad smile. “And that’s what encourages him.”

  Rosalind glanced at her mother, on the far side of Coral and Mrs. Deamer.

  You haven’t any advice to offer?

  Two hours later, over a lunch of pea soup and boiled bacon cheek with sprouts, she realized the reason for her mother’s restraint.

  “You won’t be here this time tomorrow. It’s all that’s been on my mind this morning. I can scarcely remember poor Mr. Moore’s sermon.”

  “I could look for a place while I’m there and send for you,” Rosalind said. “A pleasant cottage that I could visit.”

  She could see her mother’s shudder.

  “Or not,” Rosalind went on.

  “It’s just that I feel safe here. As much as I want to see you . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Selfish, when my moving close would be easier for you.”

  “Coming here during breaks will be no hardship,” Rosalind assured her.

  Her mother smiled. “Might a certain man have something to do with that?”

  “He may,” Rosalind admitted.

  “So, Noble Clark is growing on you.”

  Rosalind laughed. “I shall miss you, Mother.”

  20

  Danny was especially vigilant to watch the amount of water Albert drank upon the evening of April twenty-second, waking him before sunrise to use the chamber pot.

  When the sun rose, they made the bed with more than usual care, with Danny smoothing wrinkles and making certain that the quilt hung evenly on both sides.

  He washed his face at the washstand, then used the same flannel to wash his brother’s.

  “Is my hair flat?” he asked Albert after pulling a wet comb through it. Though they had a bowl and a pitcher—which held but two inches of water because of a crack—they had no mirror.

  “It’s pointing there,” Albert said, indicating the crown of his own head. “Will there be pony rides?”

  “I’ve said to you again and again,” Danny whispered after a glance at the door, “say nothing. I’ll do the asking.”

  He combed his hair again, patted it to be sure, and then combed Albert’s.

  “And don’t look so eager!” he hissed.

  “But I am!”

  Danny sighed. Albert still did not grasp that their stepmother would take it as a sign that they expected permission to be granted. Presumptuousness was a big word for young boys to know, but it was one she used often. They had no right to presume anything.

  “Just imagine it’s an ordinary day.”

  But the day did not begin ordinarily. Father sat at the head of the table with tea and a newspaper. Their stepmother held Teresa upon her lap, feeding her coddled eggs. She actually smiled when Teresa chirped, “Dinny! Aber!”

>   The smile was for Teresa, but at least she did not seem angry with Danny and his brother.

  “Good morning, Mother and Father,” they said in semiunison.

  “Good morning, boys,” Father said.

  “It’s on the stove,” their stepmother said, then turned again to Father, “The pink chair has a loose spring and sinks when you sit. This one in the advertisement is quite elegant and guaranteed for forty years.”

  Father gave a little nod and took a bite of bacon. Danny went to the stove with his brother trailing. Albert knew not to sit at the table without him. The porridge in the pot would have been a meager serving for one, but Danny spooned it into two bowls. One piece of bread lay beside the burner. He tore it in half.

  He carried the dishes to the table while Albert pulled out chairs. Once upon a time, Father complained over the sparseness of their plates. Now he seemed not to notice. It would be no use reminding him of it, Danny thought. He had eyes.

  And she would make them pay later, so it was best to say nothing.

  Perhaps their stepmother was right and they did not deserve more. Good children were not burdens to their parents.

  “They send fabric swatches by post,” she was saying. “Green would go well with the rug, I think. Or stripes. I would have to see the swatches.”

  “Can the pink chair be repaired?” Father asked around a mouthful of bread.

  Teresa lunged for the spoon in the saltcellar and happily banged the table.

  Danny attempted to grow smaller in his chair.

  “Is there to be nothing in this house that’s mine?” his stepmother asked over dull thumps of pewter against cloth.

  “But of course, Sabrina.” Redness spread from father’s collar. “It’s just that we never have callers, so I don’t see the need.”

  “And whose fault is—”

  “I’ll buy the chair,” he cut in tightly.

  “Everyone comparing me to your sainted Marjorie!”

  “I’ll buy the blasted chair!”

  Albert shifted in his chair and tapped Danny’s arm.

  Danny shook his head and spooned some porridge into his mouth.

  “May we go to the fair?” Albert asked. “And have a penny for pony rides?”

  Their stepmother wheeled to face them and hissed, “Go wherever you wish! As long as it’s out of my sight!”

  She heaved Teresa to her shoulder, her chair toppling against the flagstones, and fled the kitchen. Elbows upon the table, Father buried his face in his hands.

  Albert was opening his mouth again. Danny poked his arm and shook his head.

  “But the penny . . .”

  “It’s as much fun to watch,” Danny whispered, knowing it was not true.

  In spite of the knot in his stomach, he finished his porridge and took up the bread. He halved it with Alfred on their way out the door. As they reached the gate, Danny could hear panpipes and drums. In spite of himself, he smiled.

  “Can you hear that?”

  Albert nodded, freckled cheeks bulging.

  “Boys!”

  They turned to look at their father, standing in the open doorway. His face was crimson, but he looked more resigned than angry. Danny and Albert walked back to him.

  “You shouldn’t upset your mother that way.”

  She’s not our mother, Danny thought as his lips forced out, “I’m sorry.”

  Father sighed. “Mind you remember next time.”

  “May we go now, Father?” Albert asked with a look over his shoulder.

  Danny elbowed his side.

  “Here,” Father said and held out two pennies in his palm.

  Danny stared, too stunned to move.

  Taking command of the situation, Albert scooped the coins and handed them over to Danny. “Thank you so very much, Father!”

  Even for boys with but two pennies between them, Saint George’s Fair was a merry outing. Stalls sold shell purses and baskets, china ornaments and paintings, food and sweets. The nine-member Port Stilwell Band played tunes in the gazebo on the green while Morris dancers in costume hopped and wove. The drama of Saint George, patron saint of England, slaying the dragon and saving the king’s daughter was especially thrilling. Then there were sack races. Danny was too timid to participate but enjoyed watching people stumble toward the finish line.

  And finally, when the queue to ride the ponies had shortened, they spent a halfpenny each on a ride, ten laps around a makeshift arena.

  “What will we do now?” Albert asked afterward.

  “Are you hungry?” Danny asked as his own stomach growled.

  “I am!”

  They walked past stalls of fried fish and chips and meat pies, boiled cockles and crabs and shrimps, the aromas overwhelming the salt air.

  “Meat pies, meat pies, two for a penny,

  Squealing pork and cackling henny!

  Buy some now; don’t delay.

  The finest that you’ll find today!”

  The song, or at least the voice, sounded familiar.

  “Meat pies!” Albert chirped.

  Mr. Clark, Danny realized. But although the tune was merry, the face wore the same frown he wore in school. He was leaning against a frame post with arms folded while his father, owner of Clark Mercantile, tended a paraffin stove.

  Danny’s heartbeat quickened. He took Albert’s arm and pulled him to the side.

  “Let’s get Scotch eggs.”

  “Aw, but we have eggs all the time.”

  “But not cooked.”

  One way to fill their stomachs was to slip into henhouses when owners were indoors. Danny reckoned he had eaten so many that his scalp would go bald one day. Or sprout a stem, for in the fall, unguarded apple trees abounded on Orchard Lane.

  From the corner of his eye, Danny watched a man and woman approach the stand. Mr. Clark stopped singing, took their penny as if it were tainted, and wrapped two pies in newspaper. He handed them over without a word.

  Mr. Clark’s father barked from the stove, “Look lively, you imbecile!”

  He shot back, “It’s difficult to look lively whilst singing that ridiculous song! I shall hear it in my sleep! Why hasn’t Mother come to relieve me?”

  How odd, Danny thought, to hear a grown man behaving so childishly. His stepmother would have slapped him twice for whining so.

  “Your mum’s tending shop! She cannot be in two places at once, can she? And we wouldn’t have to do this every year if you didn’t dress like a duke!”

  “And how am I ever to become famous if my clothes are shabby? You may as well accept that I’m going places, Father!”

  “And you may as well accept that we’ve got competition! So, commence to singing!”

  Crimson faced, Mr. Clark turned again to the counter and leaned against his post.

  “Meat pies, meat pies, two for a penny,

  Squealing pork and cackling henny!”

  A man walked over to buy four pies. The schoolmaster served him and boomed an unsmiling “Thank you, Mr. Brown!”

  “Aye, that’s better,” said Mr. Clark’s father, taking off his apron. “We’ve enough cooked for a bit. I’m going to see after yer mum.”

  He left the stand and passed Danny and Albert with a grim nod.

  “Please, Danny?” Albert said.

  Danny sighed and fished the coin from his pocket. He held his breath as his brother skipped over to the stand.

  “I would like two.”

  Mr. Clark yawned. “Let’s see your penny.”

  Albert, in the process of raising his hand, flinched.

  No . . . no . . . no, Danny thought.

  “I’ve dropped it, Mr. Clark,” Albert said. “You seen it roll, didn’t you?”

  “Run along with you, boy. I’m wise to your trick.”

  Danny swallowed his fear and rushed over. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Clark, but Albert had a penny. Our father gave it to us.”

  Mr. Clark sent a sweeping look downward and shrugged.

  “You
seen it roll!” Albert cried with a burst of tears.

  A shadow fell over the counter.

  “Why, Mr. Clark.”

  Danny looked over his shoulder and into the face of a plump woman with kind gray eyes.

  Mr. Clark straightened and cleared his throat. “Um . . . good day to you, Mrs. Kent.”

  “I could not help but overhear. The young man has lost his penny?”

  There was no humor in Mr. Clark’s nervous chuckle. “There never was a penny. The children of this town are full of tricks. You dare not turn your backs to them.”

  “But you didn’t turn—” Albert said.

  “My brother could have dropped it on the way over,” Danny said, taking his arm. “He’s but six. Thank you, Mr. Clark.”

  A firm but gentle hand clamped his shoulder.

  “How many pies would you care to have?”

  “Oh. No, thank you,” Danny said.

  Wiping his eyes, Albert turned to look up at the woman. “We were to buy two, missus. But four would be better, if you please?”

  She chuckled and let go of Danny’s shoulder to dip her fingers into a purse. “They’ll have eight, Mr. Clark. Here are four pennies.”

  Mr. Clark shifted and looked down at his feet. He dipped down, held up a penny. “Ah, will you look at that? I must have stepped upon it.”

  “Imagine that. Here are three, then.”

  He shifted again. “Two, actually. A discount for your trouble, Mrs. Kent. It’s the least I can do.”

  Mr. Clark wrapped the pies in newspaper and handed them over to Danny. “There you are, lad.”

  “Thank you and good day, Mr. Clark,” the woman said. Her hand clamped upon Danny’s shoulder again, tugging gently so that he could do naught but turn with her, Albert following. The warmth and aroma of the bundle were gratifying. They stopped on the far side of a cockles stand, their vision of the pie booth blocked.

  “Let’s chat for a moment, shall we?” the woman said.

  In spite of her kind eyes, her tone was as authoritative as Mr. Clark’s. Danny looked up at her with a faint heart, and Albert pressed into his side.

  “Thank you, missus,” he said, wishing he could recall her name.

  “It was my pleasure.” She smiled. “I’m just glad I decided to venture out. My name is Mrs. Kent. And you would be . . . ?”