It happened again. While Rachel polished a knife, something caught the corner of her eye and she shivered involuntarily. It was that funny little house, she decided, the place in which Katherine intended to install her housekeeper. Someone was in there. He or she probably felt safe, as Miss Moore lived in the front of the house called Knowehead. Was it Phyllis Hart with one of her many boyfriends? Surely not. Even a heathen as bold as Phyllis would be with her family on Christmas Day. Who, then? She placed the dinner on the tray, then turned to scrutinize the back garden.
There was nothing to see, yet Rachel knew with an unwavering certainty that the little wooden house was occupied. No smoke emerged from the central chimney, no lace curtain twitched, yet the place screamed of habitation. ‘It’ll be the Irish in me,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll be seeing a crowd of leprechauns and hearing the Banshee any minute now.’
She carried the meal upstairs, noticing for the umpteenth time how grimy the house was. She was the only one, apart from Phyllis, who was allowed to visit Miss Katherine Moore. She often read to the old lady, had even opened up to her, had made her smile when she told tales of her ‘rumbustious’ family and the trouble they had endured at the hands of Frank’s father. Miss Moore, originally shocked to find herself in the company of a Catholic, was now beginning to ask questions about the faith, was begging to read the Catholic Herald and other publications produced by Roman Catholic presses.
An expert now when it came to tray-carrying, Rachel pushed open the bedroom door. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she cried.
Katherine smiled through her pain. How wonderful life had become since the arrival of Mrs Rachel Barnes. She lit up the room every time she entered, made marvellous sandwiches from home-cooked bread, was not averse to a bit of chatter over a glass of wine. ‘I wish you the same,’ she replied, ‘and thank your mother for recommending that medication from her chemist. My joints feel slightly looser already.’
‘Good, I am pleased to hear it.’ Rachel placed the tray on a tallboy then brought the mahogany stand, a wonderful piece of equipment that opened up to reveal something that resembled a stool, but with a webbed top. Onto this she placed the tray, dropping its sides so that the tray formed a circular table. With a flourish, Rachel removed a domed cover to reveal her dinner. ‘There you go. You have goose and vegetables and roast potatoes. Leave that saucer on top of the pudding dish to keep it warm.’
Something stung Katherine’s eyes. She blinked rapidly, refused to allow tears to fall. For one thing, she did not wish to damage her own reputation; for another, she hated the idea of upsetting this new friend. ‘That looks wonderful.’
Rachel sat down. She wanted to say something about the summer house, yet she knew that she could not. This was a very old lady whose frailty forbade Rachel to speak. And it was Christmas Day – oh, Frank would have to deal with the matter. Once Frank had been to the summer house, Rachel could then decide what was best.
‘What about your own dinner?’ asked Katherine.
Rachel laughed and patted her stomach. ‘All eaten,’ she answered. ‘One more mouthful and I would burst.’
Katherine ate. Both were becoming used to these companionable silences. The old woman could not imagine how she managed to eat while Rachel watched, yet she could, so she had stopped questioning herself regarding the issue. ‘My initials,’ she cried as she patted her lips with the napkin.
‘I made that for you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s only a little thing, but it’s your Christmas present.’ She noticed how Katherine placed her knife and fork together when she paused, that the eating implements had little space between them. Eager to learn manners, Rachel no longer allowed her own cutlery to rest akimbo on her plate at home. Should she ever be called upon to eat ‘posh’, Mrs Barnes intended to know her Ps and Qs.
‘I have a gift for you,’ announced Katherine. ‘It is on the dressing table over there.’ She waved a thin hand in the direction of that piece of furniture. ‘I had it sent up from town, so I guessed the size. The shop will change it for you if it is not suitable.’
Rachel fetched the parcel, reseated herself, peeled away the covering brown paper. Inside, she found a box with the words HELEN DUBARRY printed on its top in gilt letters. Helen Dubarry. Nobody got to wipe their feet on that shop’s doormat for less than five pounds. ‘Oh,’ she sighed.
Katherine marked this as one of the most pleasurable moments of her life. Her own heart beat faster as she watched the young woman’s facial expressions. So this was how it might have felt had she ever had a child. It would have been a girl, of course. Oh yes, had Miss Katherine ever married, there would have been just the one child, a female.
Rachel lifted the silk and lace blouse from its nest of pure white tissue. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ she breathed before checking herself. Katherine would never say that, would never take the good Lord’s name in vain. ‘I am sorry,’ she stammered, ‘but I never in all my life owned anything so absolutely gorgeous. If you hadn’t that arthritis, I would hug you.’
Katherine smiled inwardly. Occasionally, she caught traces of the Irish in Rachel – not in the accent, rather in the choice and arrangement of words. ‘You are most welcome to the gift, Rachel,’ she said. ‘If anyone can do justice to silk, you most certainly can. You have a rare beauty, my dear.’
Without the slightest embarrassment, Rachel peeled off her clothing and tried on the blouse. It was white, with pearl buttons up the front and a collar of snowy lace that fastened just below her throat. Like a child, she ran to the cheval, angling the mirror until it contained her whole self from top to toe. ‘This is . . .’ She swallowed hard. ‘This is a lady’s blouse,’ she managed at last. ‘It is the most beautiful blouse in the world.’
Katherine smiled and continued to enjoy her feast. For the very first time, she realized that the greatest pleasure lay in watching the joy of others.
Rachel knew instinctively that she must not mention value. A gift was a gift whether it cost a shilling or ten pounds. Or twenty, she thought as she swivelled for a view of her back. To refer to the cost of this sumptuous blouse would constitute a breaking of a code of etiquette that had developed without words. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘I hear that skirts are going to lengthen,’ said Katherine. ‘They were abbreviated by necessity, by the war. But if you care to look in that wardrobe, you will find a good dark grey suit on the left hand side. I think I used to be about your size – and you may find someone to make it over for you.’
Her breath shortened by such generosity, Rachel declared herself capable of making any alterations. She opened the wardrobe door and found herself face to face with materials she had never imagined to be within her reach. There was cashmere, linen, tweed, silk. Below the clothing, shoes of the finest leathers were arranged like soldiers on parade, not a single man out of line, every corporal and private perfectly placed as if waiting for a sergeant’s command. The poor woman had been tidy to the point of obsession.
‘I liked good clothes,’ said Katherine, her voice almost plaintive. ‘Reduced to wearing loose dressing gowns now,’ she added.
‘But you may get better,’ protested Rachel.
‘And pigs might fly,’ came the quick answer.
Rachel turned. ‘Are you going to finish that dinner?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
The young woman noticed the twinkle in rheumy eyes. ‘I want that plate to shine.’ She delivered these words in the soft brogue used by her own parents.
The suit was magnificent. As she studied it, Rachel realized that her new clothes were not so wonderful after all. Yes, they were, because they were from Frank, but oh, what a difference. The grey skirt, cut sharply and accurately, was fully lined. Even without a wearer to fill it out, this clothing hung well, as if designed by an engineer, a scientist rather than an artist.
‘Good clothes speak for themselves,’ remarked Katherine. ‘They require no explanation and few embellishmen
ts.’
‘Yes,’ gulped Rachel.
‘And they span years. A classic is a classic and is always adaptable.’
‘You have good taste.’ Rachel tried on the jacket and it fitted perfectly.
‘Dubarry provided the taste – I was just the clothes-hanger,’ replied Katherine. ‘One of the advantages of money – not that I ever had a great deal – is that a person can buy good taste. Three suits and a dozen blouses can get a woman through a whole season.’
Rachel had never owned a suit – or a costume, as the working classes termed a skirt and jacket. The blue wool she currently wore was the first complete outfit in her wardrobe. It was still pretty, still comfortable, but would she become spoilt now? Would she measure everything against this brief glimpse of couturier items?
‘Borrow whatever you like, but keep the suit.’
Manners were forgotten. ‘I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why is that?’
Rachel pondered, found no immediate reply.
Katherine laughed. ‘Is it right to give the moths a feast, to leave good cloth hanging there for years on end? Look at me, Rachel. Look at me.’
Rachel responded to the order and faced her benefactor squarely. ‘Yes?’
‘I was a tall woman for one of my generation – about five and a half feet. Now, I am small, because my bones are bent. I am three stone lighter than I was in my heyday. Can you imagine me tripping around the town in a designer suit? Those clothes would drown me now. The pain of getting into them would floor me for a week. So, take that classic grey suit home and keep it. Everything there is yours, but leave the rest here so that I shall have the pleasure of helping you to choose an ensemble.’
The younger woman dashed a tear from her cheek.
‘And do not disappoint me by becoming silly. Half of those clothes were never worn, because I was locked in with him towards the end of his life. Then, not long after he died, my own pain started.’
‘Your father?’
‘Oh, yes, my father.’ Katherine grimaced. ‘Now, be off with you so that I might enjoy my pudding in peace.’
‘Thank you,’ whispered Rachel. On a whim, she crossed the small space and planted a kiss on top of the old lady’s head. ‘Katherine?’
‘Yes?’ The monosyllable was thickened by emotion.
‘Who . . . who bathes you?’
‘The girl and I manage a bed-bath between us. Why? Am I malodorous?’
‘Not at all, but . . . I was thinking. If I could lift you into the bath, the hot water might ease the arthritis, thaw you out a bit.’
‘A thought,’ agreed Katherine, ‘as long as you don’t drop me.’
Rachel giggled. ‘I might, you know. After all, if I killed you off, I would have a wonderful wardrobe.’
They stared at one another for several seconds, each knowingly poised on the brink of the next phase in this rapidly improving relationship.
‘I can see the headline now,’ said Katherine at last. ‘Old lady killed for her Dubarry collection.’
‘Would they let me go to the gallows in my new suit?’ asked Rachel, not a trace of emotion in her tone. ‘And before I start planning, do you have any jewellery of worth? We could sell it off and extend the shop, you see.’
Katherine drew in her lips. ‘You are a horrid girl.’
‘Yes, it’s the way I was dragged up. And mind you don’t choke – there are silver threepenny pieces in my pudding.’
‘That would solve your problem,’ replied Katherine. ‘Different headline. Old lady chokes on neighbour’s kindness.’
Rachel reached and placed a hand on Katherine’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare die,’ she said softly. ‘My grandparents are all in Ireland, so I shall probably never see them. Consider yourself adopted, Miss Katherine Moore.’
When Rachel had left, grey suit and silk blouse held carefully before her like the Crown Jewels, Katherine allowed her tears to flow. For the first time ever, she felt love – not just from herself to another, but flowing in her direction, too. This under-educated Irish child-bride was her equal, her match. The pain and joy of love were too much for a neglected woman, so it poured down her face until she became too tired to weep.
The pudding, though cold, was excellent. And life, so near to its end, was worth living at last.
Frank Barnes felt like something out of a very bad film, the sort of entertainment offered in serial form on Saturday afternoons to hordes of screaming schoolchildren. And Rachel, who had refused to listen to orders, was creeping along behind him. Behind Rachel and also in defiance of advice, Dot Barnes brought up the rear of a group termed by Frank ‘the Lancashire Keystone Cops’. The three of them were acting so furtively that anyone who braved the elements on this Christmas night, any sane person who might catch a glimpse of the guilty-looking trio, would immediately fetch a constable.
He turned and looked at his wife. ‘Stop here,’ he said, though he knew she wouldn’t.
‘Sshhh,’ hissed Rachel.
He pointed to the back door of Knowehead. ‘Mam, keep Rachel near that door.’
Dot sniffed. ‘No,’ she whispered determinedly, ‘we are in this together.’
‘Three flaming Musketeers now,’ bemoaned Frank. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering. There’s nobody in yon hut.’
‘Well, there was,’ said Rachel, ‘and it’s not a hut, it’s a summer house.’
Frank shook his head incredulously. Because of his wife, whom he adored with a passion, he was trespassing, was creeping about like a criminal in the grounds of a poor old woman who had also fallen under Rachel’s spell, was in the company of a wife he needed to protect and a mother he had already removed from danger. God, he needed his head seeing to.
They made their way along the side of the house, through the garden and up to the door of the summer house. ‘It’s locked,’ declared Frank, relief plain in his tone.
‘Push,’ ordered Rachel firmly.
He pushed and the door shot inward, taking him with it. Breathless, he stood in total darkness before striking a match.
‘There’s nobody here.’ It was plain that Rachel was disappointed.
What had she wanted? Frank wondered. Jack the Ripper, a burglar with a swag-bag, the Gordon Highlanders complete with pipes and drum? ‘What are you doing now?’ he asked as Rachel overtook him. She was a minx, this one. From a predominantly female family where everyone made up her own mind, she was wilful, spoilt and absolutely determined. He loved her to pieces and felt that she might charm rabbits from their burrows if she put her mind to it.
Rachel lit a small candle on the stone mantelpiece. ‘It’s nice here,’ she said. There was a table, some chairs, a little sideboard and a picture of a ship hanging crookedly on the chimney breast. She righted the latter item, then pointed to the table where a newspaper was spread, some greaseproof paper screwed up in its centre. ‘See? Somebody has been here.’ She carried the candle to the table. ‘That newspaper’s got last week’s date on it – Friday. So there has been a visitor.’ There was triumph in her voice.
Together, they made their way through the little single-storey house, bedroom, kitchen, small closed-in porch round the back. They found cigarette ends in a cracked saucer, crumbs on a mattress, an old shoe under the bed. ‘I told you,’ said Rachel.
‘I know you did,’ replied Frank. ‘You’ve been telling us since half past three.’
‘Quarter to four,’ argued Dot. ‘I remember looking at the clock when she gave us that fashion show.’
Frank sighed heavily. ‘Can we go home now?’
Rachel concurred. ‘Right, but we need to get Katherine a housekeeper as soon as possible. Whoever’s coming in here wants chasing. He should have more respect for somebody else’s property.’
‘How do you know it’s a man?’
Rachel awarded him a withering look that was wasted in the dim light. ‘No woman would leave newspaper and sandwich wrappings on a table.’
‘Nellie wo
uld,’ said Dot.
‘Even Smelly Nellie’s cleaning herself up,’ answered Rachel. ‘No, this is a man’s doing.’ She extinguished the candle and led the way out. ‘Be quiet,’ she admonished, ‘we don’t want to be frightening her.’
Frank muttered under his breath as he led his household homeward. What did it matter? If some tramp was spending the odd hour in an empty hut, what harm was he doing? Nobody else lived in the place, nobody was losing out. Rachel was so fiercely protective of Miss Katherine Moore – why? ‘I don’t know why you bother,’ he said as they reached the shop.
‘I know you don’t.’ Rachel rounded on him in the doorway. ‘Money’s not everything,’ she informed him loftily.
He unlocked the door. ‘I never said it was.’
‘And I never said you said it was.’
Oh heck. This was looking as if it might turn into one of Rachel’s circular arguments, three times round the flaming block, meet your original opinion on the way back.
Inside the shop, Rachel sat on the customers’ chair. ‘She has never had any love. Her mam died giving birth to her, then her dad was as much use as a flat rolling pin. He drank everything except water and he never took any notice of her. All she has now is that house and a bit of pride.’
‘More pride than sense,’ interposed Dot.
‘More pride than a family of lions,’ added Frank.
‘That’s as may be,’ Rachel insisted, ‘but when you’ve lived in a house without love—’
‘We have,’ said Dot rather sharply.
‘You loved your sons.’ Rachel folded her arms and tried to look stern. ‘It’s not your fault that your husband turned bad. And you protected your lads. There was nobody to protect Katherine, so she’s grown a suit of armour. And so thin,’ she said sadly. ‘I’ve seen more meat on a Good Friday than what she has on her bones.’
Frank sniffed a drip of moisture, declared himself to be frozen stiff, went through to the house to brew some tea.
‘Give over worrying,’ urged Dot.
‘There’s somebody living in that summer house, and—’
Saturday's Child Page 15
