by Dominic Luke
‘You don’t say much, do you?’ Noah Lee poked Dorothea’s arm. ‘What’s your news, then? What have you got to tell us? What about that boy up there at the big house, the cripple? Is he living still? They say he’s the heir and all that, but I heard as he’s kept locked up in the attic.’
Nora scoffed. ‘Where do you get such ideas, Grandpa? Master Richard isn’t locked up anywhere. You ask Miss Dorothea if you don’t believe me!’
All too soon it was time to go. Dorothea thanked Mrs Turner for having her, and Mrs Turner said she was most welcome and must come again any time.
‘Don’t take no notice of Grandpa,’ Nora said, as she led the way down the garden path and into the street. ‘He likes the sound of his own voice, that’s all. And he thinks he knows everything – as I’m sure you worked out for yourself.’
But Dorothea was, in a way, rather taken with Noah Lee, although she was still a little afraid of him. He treated her as if she was just anyone, made no allowances either for her age or because she came from the big house. She liked that.
Nora was pointing across the street. ‘Look, miss, that cottage there is where the Carters are living now. They were lucky it was empty – though, of course, they wouldn’t have been able to afford it before. It’s all thanks to Mr Brannan that they can afford it now.’
That was something else Uncle Albert had been busy with this last week. Not charity, he’d said, merely a helping hand. There was nothing wrong, he’d insisted, in helping those who wanted to help themselves. And so he had helped the Carters into their new home and taken Nibs on as gardeners’ boy (help, at long last, for Becket), and one of Nibs’s sisters was to work in the kitchens. As for Arnie Carter, the eldest brother, he had been given a position in Uncle Albert’s bicycle factory. The only drawback was that Arnie would now have to spend most of his time in Coventry. This had come as rather a bitter blow to Nora. Though she now had the Carters living opposite her, the one Carter she most wanted to see was the one least at home. Not, of course, that Nora would ever have admitted to having a soft spot for Arnie Carter.
Nora said her farewell on the Lawham Road and Dorothea walked the last lap on her own. She felt very grown-up, proud of herself too, as she turned up the driveway between the tall evergreens swaying in the breeze. Denizen of Clifton Park, habitué of the village, she had the whole world at her feet – all of the world that mattered, anyway.
Much was made of the ruined hat. Nibs had brought it all the way up from the village, Uncle Albert had promised a replacement, and now Henry was taking her to Lawham especially to choose the new one.
‘Such a to-do,’ said Dorothea, ‘over a hat.’
Mlle Lacroix had smiled. ‘The hat is of no consequence, ma petite. People wish to oblige you. Monsieur Henri wishes to oblige you. That is what is important, rather than the hat.’
Bernadette was swooping now bright and early along the Lawham Road. Gleaners were at work in the fields. The canal glittered like silver under the morning sun. Secret shadows nestled under the beech trees of Ingleby Wood. Watching the world swing by, Dorothea mulled over the governess’s words and wondered why people should wish to oblige her. She could only think that everyone was much nicer than you might think. Roderick would pooh-pooh such an idea – but even he had obliged her after a fashion by making peace with Nibs. The two boys had shaken hands, albeit reluctantly. But she had brooked no argument. She had wanted it settled once and for all. It was important now that Nibs was coming to work at Clifton.
‘I will shake hands if I must,’ Roderick had said sulkily, ‘but you can’t expect everyone to be friends all the time.’
But what did he know? Precious little, she felt. She wondered what on earth they taught him at that school of his. Nothing of consequence, obviously. Nothing about the significance of hats and all that hats stood for.
Henry was his usual garrulous self this morning and was still cock-a-hoop about the recent visit to Clifton of a Mr Stanley Smith – none other than the man Uncle Albert had met on the train. Mr Smith had brought with him his design for a new type of autocar – a light car, Henry called it. The design had yet to get off the drawing board.
‘That’s because Mr Smith is a humbug,’ Roderick had said with a superior sneer.
‘Mr Smith is not a humbug! Uncle Albert would never invite a humbug! Why must you always think the worst of people?’
‘And why must you be so gullible?’ (Gullible was Roderick’s new word, brought home with him from school. By now – August – Dorothea was heartily sick of it.)
Mr Smith hadn’t looked like a humbug, whatever Roderick might say, but then he hadn’t looked like anything much – certainly not like a thwarted genius. With his greying hair and greying moustache, he was rather like a watered-down version of Uncle Albert himself. He had come to tea, along with Henry and Henry’s friend Mr Giles Milton (another motor enthusiast). Together with Uncle Albert, they had sat round and discussed Mr Smith’s design.
Dorothea had longed to be a fly on the wall. She had not been able to think about anything else, sitting in the day room wondering how things were progressing downstairs. ‘Egg sandwiches, pate sandwiches,’ she had murmured. ‘Cucumber sandwiches, toast, brioches….’
Roderick had looked at her as if she was mad. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘It’s all the things that Cook has prepared for tea. I know, because I helped her. There’s chocolate cake, coffee cake, scones—’
Roderick had mocked her. ‘You oughtn’t to be so gullible as to do Cook’s job for her. Servants are there to work.’
‘Did Aunt Eloise teach you to say that?’ It was the sort of thing Dorothea imagined Aunt Eloise would say.
‘I can think for myself, you know, and I never take any notice of Mother, in any case. I am not a mummy’s boy like your precious Henry.’
‘Henry is not a mummy’s boy!’ She had felt like stamping her foot. Roderick was so infuriating. ‘Why must you be so horrible? I shall be glad when you’ve gone back to school!’
He had turned away then, hiding his face, and she’d been afraid that she’d hurt his feelings.
‘I didn’t mean it, Roddy. I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have to go to school, I really do.’
But he had turned back to face her, grinning from ear to ear in the most maddening way. ‘It would take more to upset me than you. Your trouble is, you are just too, too gullible!’
Listening to Henry now talking about Mr Smith and his design as Bernadette dived under the railway bridge and then up, up, so that the distant spire of Lawham church swung into view, Dorothea could not help but wonder if Roderick was so totally wrong. Others beside him might have called Henry a mummy’s boy. And what if Mr Smith really was a humbug? But mummy’s boy or not, Henry was worth a dozen Rodericks and although Henry might get carried away in his enthusiasm for motor cars, Uncle Albert was not someone who would get taken in by a humbug. By all accounts, Uncle Albert had been impressed by Mr Smith’s matter-of-fact attitude to his work.
‘All we need now,’ Henry said, ‘is to persuade your uncle that autocars really are worth investing in. The prototype will help us there.’
‘What’s a prototype, Henry?’
‘Something that’s the first of its kind.’
‘Like Adam and Eve?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. In fact, Eve would make rather a good name for the prototype we’re going to build. What do you think?’
Dorothea thought it was perfect. Now she had a hand in the prototype, even if it was just giving it a name. But next to her Mlle Lacroix was leaning forward in some concern as the motor swung round a brace of empty wagons heading towards the harvest fields.
‘Oh, Monsieur Henri, you must take care!’
‘Don’t you worry, Mademoiselle!’ cried Henry, manhandling the steering wheel, sending the motor veering from one side of the road to the other. ‘You’re quite safe with me!’
And Dorothea laughed, because she did feel sa
fe with Henry, for no one knew more about motor cars then he did.
Dorothea, balanced on her bicycle, stopped to catch her breath, looking back along the Lawham Road towards the village. It was a bright October afternoon, the air still, the blue sky mottled with high white clouds. Mlle Lacroix was some way behind, labouring up the gentle slope on her bicycle, pedals going slowly round, round but they needed to hurry, or they would miss all the excitement back at Clifton.
‘Why, hello, Miss Dorothea! Fancy meeting you here!’
Dorothea swivelled on her saddle and found herself face to face with Mrs Turner, Nora’s mother, plump and rosy-cheeked and smiling as ever, puffing a little after walking up from the canal. She had a covered basket on her arm.
‘I’ve just been to Lawham, miss. There were one or two things I needed that couldn’t wait for the carrier.’
‘You walked all the way to Lawham, Mrs Turner? But it’s so far!’
‘Bless you, miss, but it’s no more than three mile.’
‘You should get a bicycle like mine. It would be ever so much quicker than walking.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, miss!’ exclaimed Mrs Turner as she mopped her face with a spotted handkerchief. ‘I’m too long in the tooth to be learning new tricks. Our Jem’s taken to cycling. He cycles to work every day now. But I’ll stick to Shanks’s pony, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Whose pony?’
‘Shanks’s. My own two feet.’ Mrs Turner laughed. ‘You may be sure I’ve never owned a real pony. Not like your aunt. She was a great one for riding when she was a girl. Out in all weathers, she was. Fearless, too. But then they always said she could ride before she could walk.’
Aunt Eloise, out in all weathers, a fearless rider? It was impossible, somehow, to imagine. It was impossible even to picture her as a girl; she seemed so impermeable and unchanging. Yet she must have been young once – as must Mrs Turner. They were perhaps of a similar age, Nora’s mother and Aunt Eloise, but they were chalk and cheese in everything else.
Mlle Lacroix came toiling up just then. ‘Ah, Dorossea, you wait for me, merci. And Mrs Turner. How do you do? Bonjour.’
‘Bon journey, mam’zelle.’ Mrs Turner’s smile grew even broader. ‘Hark at me, speaking French! Who’d have thought it? But that’s our Nora for you. She’s always teaching us something new, things she’s learned up at the big house. So you’ve both been in the village, have you?’
‘Dorossea is always anxious to meet her friends.’
‘Well, of course. And she has so many friends in the village now.’
‘Today, Madam Turner, we also chase a— how do you say? Un cochon.’
‘A pig,’ said Dorothea.
‘A pig?’ exclaimed Mrs Turner. ‘Not the Hobson’s beast again? If it’s escaped once, it’s escaped a dozen times! I don’t know. Those Hobsons.’ She shook her head, as if she doubted whether there was anything to be done about the Hobsons.
Dorothea set her foot on the pedal. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Turner, but we must go. Eve is coming today!’
‘Who might she be, when she’s at home?’
‘I’ll tell you another day!’ cried Dorothea, setting her bicycle in motion. ‘Goodbye Mrs Turner! Goodbye!’
Quite a crowd had gathered in front of the house. Interest in the new autocar had grown apace in the months since Mr Smith’s visit. The prototype had been built at Uncle Albert’s factory in Coventry and was being driven down today by Henry to Clifton on its first test run. Mr Smith himself was a passenger whilst Uncle Albert headed the welcoming committee. Aunt Eloise was there too, along with Henry’s mother and Henry’s friend Mr Giles. Mrs Somersby was also present. She had just happened to call by. As Dorothea propped her bicycle against the garden wall, she could hear Mrs Somersby giving Uncle Albert the benefit of her wisdom. She had an opinion on everything. Motors were something of a novelty, she was saying, though mainly only of concern to men. One might find that women would take more of an interest if the clothes could be improved on but most motoring attire was simply frightful. She would never be seen dead in such clothes herself. Motors would never really take off until these important matters were addressed. It was high time someone took note. Uncle Albert nodded and muttered that she was right, quite right and Mrs Somersby smiled, for she liked people to agree with her. And as if to test Uncle Albert’s metal she added that it was rather warm for October, didn’t he think so?
Aunt Eloise and Lady Fitzwilliam were sitting on the bench under the cedar tree, looking up at the house with its glinting windows and grey pilasters. Such a pleasing façade, said Lady Fitzwilliam, so neat and well-ordered – she had always thought so.
‘That’s all very well, Alice, but what about the crumbling brickwork, the broken slates, the leaning chimney?’ Aunt Eloise lamented. ‘Not to mention the leaks, the dry rot and the piles of mouse droppings in the attics.’
‘My dear! You make it sound positively decrepit!’
‘But it is decrepit. It has been frightfully neglected.’
‘It wouldn’t take much to put it right, a few repairs, a lick of paint.’
‘It’s the cost, Alice, the cost! That’s the nuisance of it. One really can’t expect Albert to pay when it isn’t his house; one really can’t expect it. But the trustees are so niggardly, the house could go to wrack and ruin before they ever lifted a finger!’
Taking a fresh look at the house, Dorothea wondered if things really were so bad, or if Aunt Eloise was exaggerating. She remembered Bessie Downs’s words from ages ago: the house is all she’s ever cared about. Watching it crumble away would break anyone’s heart – if one really could feel that way about a mere building, and if that building really was crumbling away.
There was no more time to consider the point for at that moment there came a shout from Mr Giles who was on lookout at the top of the drive. Everyone was swept up in the excitement of Eve’s imminent arrival.
Sleek, compact, hood down, bodywork gleaming, wire wheels spinning, Eve crunched across the gravel and came to halt outside the house. An admiring crowd gathered round as Henry jumped down, tearing off his goggles. The machine was a triumph, he cried – lightweight, but strong as steel, it ran smoothly, handled easily, and the fuel consumption was nothing short of miraculous. Mr Smith was a genius! Would anyone like a ride?
Of course, everyone did – even Mrs Somersby. ‘So much less noisy than the usual run of motors,’ she declared. ‘So elegant, too. One feels like a queen. One might be tempted to purchase such a vehicle oneself – if only one could find the right clothes!’
‘I am pleased to announce, Viola, that such a purchase will indeed soon be possible,’ said Uncle Albert. He stepped up onto the running board to make a little speech. He was proud and delighted, he said, to proclaim this very afternoon the founding of a new concern: the BFS Motor Manufacturing Company. The initials stood for the three investors: himself, ‘young Fitzwilliam there’ and ‘that very talented and forward-looking engineer, Mr Stanley Smith’. The order book would open immediately. ‘But don’t all rush at once,’ he added, drawing a general laugh.
So, thought Dorothea, Uncle Albert had once again moved with the times and was taking up the challenge of autocars. No wonder Henry was beaming from ear to ear, no wonder Mr Smith looked bowled over. As she ran her hand over Eve’s paintwork, traced with one finger the rim of the spare tyre, caressed the shiny brass lamps and felt the heat coming through the radiator slats, Dorothea wondered what would happen to all the copies of Eve that were to come. Uncle Albert had gambled. Would it pay off? Only time would tell.
The prototype took its leave the next morning. Henry was to drive it back to Coventry, accompanied by Uncle Albert, along with Mr Smith who had stayed overnight at Clifton. The BFS Motor Manufacturing Company was to begin in earnest.
After the feverish excitement the previous day, Dorothea found herself feeling rather flat. She wished she could have gone off with Eve too, to join in the adventure. What was Uncle Albert’
s factory like? What was Coventry like? Uncle Albert had lived there for years and years until moving to Clifton to become Richard’s guardian – and to please Aunt Eloise, no doubt.
Going down to the library that afternoon to choose a book, Dorothea’s head was still full of thoughts of Coventry. Uncle Albert had been born somewhere called Seton Street, in a little court that sounded very much like the place where she had lived with her papa in London. Later, Uncle Albert’s family had moved to a bigger house in Forest Road and that was where Dorothea’s mama had been born. Sitting at the desk in the library, absent-mindedly turning the pages of an old book she had picked at random, Dorothea wondered what her mama had been like as a girl and how she had spent her days up until the time of the fateful elopement. And what then? Where had they run to, her papa and mama? Where had they lived? How had they ended up in London? She had not dared ask Uncle Albert about any of this.
Looking down at the book, she became aware of the small, intricate and highly-coloured illustrations. The text was all about fabulous creatures said to inhabit the far corners of the earth: birds as big as houses, sea serpents that swallowed ships, men with faces in their chests. It was faintly disturbing, somehow, to read about such things. The world was so big it made her head ache to think about it. Her curiosity about Coventry withered. She pushed her unknown mama to the back of her mind. Clifton, the village, an occasional trip to Lawham – that was quite enough for anyone. She had no desire to meet the fabulous creatures from the pictures.
At that moment she heard the faint sound of a door opening – the drawing room door, at a guess. A bell tinkled in a distant part of the house. She stood up, her heart thumping. Although she had permission to be in the library, it was still something of an ordeal to run into Aunt Eloise or Mrs Bourne. But the footsteps she heard in the hallway were heavy and slow-paced, a man’s footsteps.
Moving to stand by the ajar door, Dorothea saw Bessie Downs come dashing past, running to answer the bell, presumably, and behindhand as ever. Despite the dangers of loitering, Dorothea edged out into the passage and made her way slowly towards the front hall. She heard Bessie say, ‘M’lord?’ And then a stranger’s voice snapped, ‘My hat! My stick!’ The words were curt, clipped, short-tempered.
