by Nancy Carson
‘Well, Mr Humphries claims that Dickie was not on duty on the day of the accident, which will almost certainly affect any compensation payment. But I swear, Mr – I mean, Arthur—’ She smile apologetically ‘—that he left this house in his uniform. I understood him to be working that day.’
‘Ah …’
Oh dear. A tricky situation.
‘Mr Humphries said that if he’d been on duty there would be no question, but since he was travelling merely as a passenger, any claim for compensation would have to be treated differently.’ The kettle began steaming and spitting and Isabel stood up to make the tea. ‘I’m anxious about this, you know, Arthur.’ She reached into a cupboard for her tea caddy. ‘Why should Mr Humphries claim that Dickie wasn’t working when he was supposed to be? Can you throw any light on it?’
‘Me?’ Arthur took a second to consider how to answer her question. He had no wish to incriminate poor dead Dickie, any more than he wished to burden Isabel with the knowledge of his deceit. ‘I take it you’ve checked to see if any of his clothes are missing?’
She spooned tea leaves into a brown enamelled teapot then followed it with boiling hot water and gave it a stir. ‘Strangely, Arthur, there’s a pair of trousers and a jacket missing. Mr Humphries says they found his uniform in his locker. That suggests he took other clothes with him on the day of the accident, perhaps to change into. In which case, he’d lied to me.’ She sat down again.
Arthur looked down at his boots and the navy blue podged rug beneath them, unable to look Isabel Dempster in the eye. Of course he knew why Dickie had changed from his uniform into his own clothes, but how could he possibly reveal it to her?
‘To tell you the truth, Arthur, I think I do know why,’ she said evenly.
‘Oh?’ He regarded her apprehensively. ‘But I’m sure it’s not something you want to talk to me about.’
‘I do if you’ve a mind to listen … You see, even though I don’t know you that well, I feel I can talk to you easily. Sometimes it’s easier to unburden yourself on somebody you don’t know too well. You seem to have a very sympathetic ear, Arthur, somebody I can confide in. And believe me, I do need to confide in somebody …’
At last he witnessed tears trembling on the lashes of her lovely eyes, and a tear trickled gently over her cheek.
‘Please don’t upset yourself, Isabel.’
‘Forgive me, Arthur, but I’ve been upset a long time. This is nothing new, you may rest assured.’ She lifted her apron and wiped her eyes. ‘Forgive me for blubbering like a schoolgirl.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me. But whatever it is, are you sure you want to tell me?’
‘Oh, yes …’ She sniffed and dabbed her eyes again, endeavouring to compose herself. ‘You see, Dickie was often unfaithful to me. Whilst he made sure that his children never went short, he had affairs with a whole string of women over the five years or so since we’ve been married. After a while you recognise the signs – the distant looks, the not listening when you talk to him, the changes in routine which are obviously made to suit somebody else’s, the starting to go out on different nights of the week. And, as you might guess, Arthur, the lack of interest in me when he’s in the midst of his current adventure.’
‘I find that hard to understand, Isabel. I find it hard to understand why he should have bothered with other women in the first place when he had you.’
She flashed him a grateful smile. ‘I’m certain he was involved with another woman at the time of the accident. That’s why, I imagine, he led me to believe he was working when it’s obvious now that he wasn’t. I suppose the poor girl he was seeing was on the train with him. I only hope to God that she wasn’t maimed or killed as well.’
‘There were no women in the guards’ van that Dickie travelled in, Isabel. I know it for a fact.’
‘Then that’s a good sign … for her, I mean, whoever she might be. Let’s hope she’s unhurt.’
‘Oh, I doubt whether she will have emerged from it scot-free,’ he replied, thinking more of Lucy’s broken heart. ‘There was something going on, though, according to one or two of the witnesses. I think there was some drink. It seems there were about a dozen men in that guards’ van that night. Some of them were drinking …’
‘Oh, Dickie would have been one of them if there was drink about. He was very partial to a drink. Too partial …’
‘So what other women did he have affairs with, Isabel. Do you know?’
‘The last one I know about was a girl called Myrtle Collins. She was unmarried and fairly well presented. She was neat and tidy, and attractive to look at, although not immediately striking. I think she came from a respectable family. I know this, because I met her. I think all his women fitted that description. But Myrtle was a bit more defiant than the others. She was not going to be put off. Dickie must have got tired of her and told her he wanted to finish with her, but Myrtle followed him home one night unbeknownst …’
‘Followed him home? That must have been a trial for you.’
‘In the finish it was really more of a trial for him. As far as I was concerned she was just another of his women, but she considered herself entitled to more than just a mistress might expect, and I don’t blame her. He’d made her pregnant, you see. Evidently, he’d promised her marriage, a promise he obviously couldn’t keep. Myrtle kicked up quite a fuss and even brought her father along on another night. Some time later she gave birth to a daughter. Dickie’s bastard … It ended up with Dickie having to pay her something every week if he didn’t want his nose broken by Myrtle’s father.’ Isabel sighed and stood up. ‘I think the tea must be ready by now …’
She lifted the lid off the pot and gave it another stir, then went to the cupboard and withdrew two cups and saucers, which she placed on the scrubbed wooden table under the window.
‘You’ve had a rough time, by the sounds of it, Isabel,’ Arthur remarked caringly. ‘Fancy. Who’d have thought it.’
‘You don’t strike me as being anything like Dickie, Arthur,’ she said, pouring the tea. She looked up at him and smiled approvingly. ‘I can’t imagine that you’d treat your young lady like that when you get married.’
‘No, I wouldn’t dream,’ he asserted.
‘I think she’s a very lucky young woman to have got somebody like you.’
He grinned self-consciously, feeling himself blush at the compliment.
She sighed. ‘It’s a pity there aren’t more men like you … Sugar?’
‘One spoonful, please.’
She handed Arthur a cup and saucer then sat down again. ‘So you see, Arthur, my marriage wasn’t a particularly happy one. The problem for women, in this day and age, is that there’s no practical remedy for us against husbands who are unfaithful or unkind.
‘Daft, I agree. The law needs changing.’
‘So, although I never wished Dickie any harm, I cannot be so hypocritical as to grieve over him now he’s gone. I feel very little grief. What love I had for him when we were married, he sort of knocked it out of me with his affairs … and his drinking.’
‘Was he ever unkind to you? I mean, did he ever strike you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I’m so sorry, Isabel. I had no idea, I would never have dreamt. I can understand how you feel. It seems to me that this girl who you reckon he was seeing lately had a lucky escape.’
‘I’d love to know who she is. I could save her a lot of heartache. I could certainly put her wise.’
‘Isabel …’ Because of the way he said her name she looked at him expectantly, placing her cup back in the saucer. ‘I’m a stonemason in my family’s business … I can’t remember whether I told you that or not … You’ll probably want a decent grave for Dickie … Let me provide it, will you? It’ll save you a lot of expense and trouble if you will leave it all to me. I mean, if the compensation you’re likely to get falls short of your expectations as well …’
‘Arthur, that’s very, very kind. Certainly, you can construct
the grave. As you say, it will relieve me of a lot of time and trouble, but as for letting you pay for it … I wouldn’t dream.’
‘Well, let’s say that, in view of your stretched circumstances, I’ll not press you for payment.’
‘That’s more than considerate, Arthur. Thank you.’
‘After the funeral, I could call and see you again and show you some designs. I could help you choose a grave and together we could come up with a suitable inscription for the headstone.’
‘I’d be grateful if you would, Arthur.’
Arthur left Isabel Dempster almost as soon as he had finished his cup of tea, wondering whether or not to reveal to Lucy what she had said. He travelled back to the station debating with himself on this very point. If Lucy got over Dickie fairly quickly there might be no point in telling her, but telling her might speed up the mending of her broken heart. He did not know what to do for the best. Perhaps he should seek Dorinda’s advice … Then again, perhaps not …
On arrival at Temple Meads Arthur went directly to St Mary Redcliffe. Mr Pascoe was in the hut his men used as a base while they worked restoring the beautiful old church, and Arthur tapped on the open door to draw the man’s attention.
‘Oh, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, Mr Goodrich.’ He leaned back in the chair he was occupying and drew on his clay pipe, appraising his employee. ‘I was expecting you first thing.’
‘I only just got back, Mr Pascoe … Sorry. As a matter of fact, I’m due at the inquest again next Tuesday. It’s been adjourned again.’
‘D’you think you’ll ever put in another full week for me?’ Pascoe asked sarcastically.
‘Well … Maybe not, Mr Pascoe.’ Here was the perfect opportunity to tell his gaffer he was returning home for good. ‘The truth is, I have to tender my notice. I’m moving back to Brierley Hill to be an equal partner with my brother in the family business, now that my father’s passed on. If you could see your way clear—’
‘Equal partner …’ Mr Pascoe scratched his chin. ‘Mmm … Well, I can’t compete with that, Mr Goodrich, much as I appreciate your work … when you’re here to do any. So, I reckon I got no choice in the matter. Just so long as you don’t go poaching my best men, mark you.’ He wagged his clay pipe at Arthur admonishingly.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Mr Pascoe.’
‘Do you intend to stay and inspire us for the rest o’ the week, then?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Arthur replied.
‘Then I’ll have your wages made up till Saturday dinnertime. You can collect ’em then.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pascoe.’
‘Now look after yourself, dear Arthur,’ Mrs Hawkins said as the pair stood together saying goodbye. ‘And give my sincere good wishes to your mother. I do hope you’ll give her a tolerable account of me and the way I’ve tried to look after you all these months.’
‘Oh, I have already, Mrs Hawkins. As a matter of fact, I’ve already told her how good your fish pies are and everything.’
‘Bless you. Well, if your new venture doesn’t work out to your satisfaction, and you feel like coming back to Bristol, you’ll be very welcome to lodge here again. I shall miss you, Arthur.’ Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes and she dabbed at them beneath her spectacles with a small handkerchief.
Arthur was touched by this spontaneous glimpse of her genuine affection. ‘Oh, I’ll be back to see you many a Saturday or Sunday, Mrs Hawkins. I shall come to Bristol at the end of most weeks to see Dorinda, ’cept when she comes to stay with me and my mother in Brierley Hill. You’ll very likely get tired of seeing me.’
‘But won’t the expense of travelling to and fro be too much for you? I mean, if you’re saving to get married, you won’t be able to save much if you’re travelling by rail to Bristol and back every week.’
Arthur scratched his head. He hadn’t considered the matter before. ‘Maybe so … Maybe some weeks I won’t come … But when I do, I promise I’ll call and see you, and bring you some of my mother’s best pork pie. She makes the best pork pie in the world you know, Mrs Hawkins.’
Mrs Hawkins smiled through her tears. ‘Tell her I’m looking forward to it.’
‘I will,’ Arthur grinned, trying to be cheerful. He planted a kiss on the old lady’s cheek, picked up his travelling bag. ‘Thank you for everything, Mrs Hawkins.’
Mrs Hawkins opened the door for him, but Arthur hesitated to put on his hat.
‘Can I ask you something, Mrs Hawkins?’
‘What do you want to ask?’
‘Well … I’d like your opinion. To me, you’re the sort of woman who sees things clearly and I want to know what you think about something … from a woman’s point of view.’
‘Is it going to take long? You might as well put your bag down and come back inside …’
Arthur did as he was bid, and followed Mrs Hawkins into her small sitting room where they sat facing each other on comfortable padded chairs.
‘So what do you want my opinion about?’
‘You know the railway accident I told you about—’
‘Yes. I read about it too, remember.’
‘You know the widow of that chap Dickie Dempster I told you about – Isabel …’
‘Yes …’
‘She knows her husband was a rogue where women were concerned. Well, she stopped loving him because he was such a rogue, and she says she doesn’t grieve over his death … She’s troubling me, Mrs Hawkins. Sorely. She seems such a decent, gentle soul. She never deserved to be treated the way he treated her. She’s got a couple of children, very young, although I don’t know their ages, because I haven’t seen them – and I never thought to ask.’
‘You mean you feel sorry for this Isabel,’ Mrs Hawkins suggested.
‘I feel sorry for her, yes … but I think it might be more than that. I’m drawn to her. She’s so much like Lucy … But the children—’
‘Does this Isabel like you in the same way?’
Arthur shrugged. ‘I can’t say. She seemed happy to see me. We talked for ages and she confided quite a bit to me. And she wants me to visit her again after the funeral …’
‘It would be totally inappropriate to go calling on a young widow so soon after the death of her husband, Arthur, however much of a rogue he’s been,’ Mrs Hawkins counselled.
‘I’d be calling in a professional capacity though. She’s asked me to design and make his grave.’
‘As long as it is only in a professional capacity. But it sounds just an excuse to me.’
‘I suppose it is,’ he conceded. ‘But what I want to know is whether it’s wrong that a man should be wary of taking on another man’s children … If it ever got that far, I mean.’
‘I would have thought there’s more to it than just that. There’s nothing wrong with taking on another man’s children, and it could be considered a very charitable thing to do, as long as you remember that just because they are another man’s children doesn’t mean that they should not be loved and nurtured as if they were one’s own. You see, children seldom have any choice in the matter of whom their widowed parents might re-marry. I was such a child myself, you know. My mother re-married after my father died. I was very wary of how my life would turn out. I was very wary of the man. I did not know him, I did not know whether he would be cruel or kind to me. Even though I was so small I worried about these things. I can remember it all so clearly. Nonetheless, it transpired that my new step-father was very kind to me. He showed me affection and I loved him for it … as much as I loved my real father. Other men are cruel to their step-children – women too – and that can only lead to a child’s misery, and adversely affect the way they grow up. And who in their right mind would want to make a child miserable, and ruin their futures because of it?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Arthur affirmed.
‘I know you wouldn’t, Arthur, because you are a kind, gentle and considerate person. But to answer your question more fully, the real issue is not wh
ether you should consider taking on another man’s children, it is really whether you wish to take on that man’s widow, since the children are an inevitable part of the legacy.’
Arthur perceived the wisdom in Mrs Hawkins’s words. ‘I don’t know whether I want to take her on or not. I hardly know her, but, like I said, I am drawn to her. She might not like me in that way anyway, but if it became obvious that she did …’
‘So what about Dorinda?’
‘That’s where I’m all at sea, Mrs Hawkins. I love Dorinda. She’s a beautiful girl.’
‘And do you love her for her beauty, or for her heart?’
‘What’s wrong with loving a girl if she’s beautiful?’
‘Nothing, so long as she is blessed with other virtues as well. But if Dorinda was a widow and had a child already, and that child was a horrid little brat, would you still be inclined to marry her and take on that child?’
‘I think, Mrs Hawkins, that if a child is a horrid brat, then there’s a reason for it. If I loved the mother, then why not try and help the child mend its ways and show it some affection? But I don’t think there’s much chance of Dorinda having a child anyway, so it’s a pointless question. She don’t want children, as you know.’
‘And that, surely, is another consideration, Arthur.’
‘I know,’ he conceded quietly. ‘When a girl is as beautiful as Dorinda, a man feels something and wants to exercise his marital rights – if you’ll pardon me for speaking so blunt, Mrs Hawkins. It’s nature’s way, I reckon. But that ain’t part of Dorinda’s agenda from what she says. I don’t reckon I can go through life being celibate, and if I marry I don’t see why I should. So when I see another girl I fancy, like this Isabel, who already has children, I know she ain’t averse to doing the very thing what causes them in the first place. I know I wouldn’t have to be celibate.’ He smiled his apology at using such liberal talk with Mrs Hawkins.
‘Then I think you need to have a heart-to-heart with Dorinda before you do anything, Arthur. A girl cannot live in cloud-cuckoo-land when it comes to marriage and what is expected of her in the marriage bed. That is naïve in the extreme. But only you can sort that out. Dorinda must be aware that marriage was ordained for the procreation of children, and she must be persuaded to accept it.’
