Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  He stood back then and watched Ernest’s final agony. Without digitalis, there was no cure. But Peter had saved Dorothy, had brought her a gift whose value was beyond price, beyond measure. He had given her the freedom to move about Hesford without jumping every time a vehicle approached.

  They reached the gates of Chedderton Grange. ‘He deserved that stroke,’ said Dot, ‘Ernest, I mean. God knows he stroked my lads’ backs with a cane often enough.’

  ‘Stop thinking about him.’ He released her arm and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Fear is dead,’ he told her. ‘And nothing will ever hurt you again.’

  He removed the cup, placed it in his pocket, abandoned the corpse where it was, half on and half off its usual chair. With his own heart beating like a bass drum, Peter Smythe left the scene of his crime and steered the bike into Prudence Street’s back alley. Like a shadow, he had come and gone for weeks, had gained the confidence of a hateful man.

  Well, it was done. As the priest had said at the end of a Mass Peter had attended just once out of interest, ite missa est. It was over. And Dorothy was free at last.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘you’ve gone all of a dream. Peter?’

  ‘I am sorry, my love. Yes, we must hurry, or we shall miss the first scene.’ He led his wife towards the next episode in their joint lives, and guilt was not in the equation.

  She woke with a start, the book still held in her hand. Oh, she was always falling asleep these days. It was probably a side effect of these new painkillers, great big white things that required breaking into four pieces before she could swallow them.

  Once her focus settled, she fixed her eyes again on the work of Peter Smythe. The man who lodged with his wife in Katherine’s summer house was courteous, well-spoken, almost willing at times, but there was something, a sort of challenge in his eyes when he addressed her. Was he wondering whether she had found herself in this book?

  She read on, learned a little about his background, his mother, his home. Peter’s only parent had been cursed by drink, had been a weekend imbiber. During weekdays, she was sober, reasonable, a good educator of her only child. But at weekends, she raged about the man who had cast her out after impregnating her. Good God, Peter Smythe had no shame, was screaming his illegitimacy all over the page.

  I am a bastard, but a privileged soul for all that. Mother taught me to enjoy nature, to nurture all things that grow, to respect creatures of the earth. She had a brain that encompassed more than I shall ever know, yet her bitterness twisted that sweet mind, driving her further each year, then each month, then each day into the madness that would finally engulf her.

  Katherine sniffed and rested her vision for a moment. At least he had owned a mother. As she thought about what she had just read, she realized that she and Peter Smythe had much in common, since her parent, too, had been married to a bottle. Like her, Peter had been lonely; like her, he had remained alone. Until now, until he had suddenly married Dot Barnes.

  Lifting her hands again, she continued to read.

  Nellie stopped in her tracks.

  Lily carried on, realized that she was suddenly alone, turned on her heel. What was Nellie playing at now? ‘Nellie?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Nellie? Come on, we’ll be late.’

  An owl cried mournfully into near-darkness. Nellie, scarcely breathing, heard the bird’s wings as he raised his body into the night sky. Water. Water splashing onto a cotton dress, a woman’s laughter. Mother. The same fountain, silent now, no water because of the frost of autumn, but that cherub would be there, the little angel with a chip taken out of his nose. Hard ball, tiny hard ball, Father with a stick. Golf club.

  ‘Nellie!’ Had the poor woman gone deaf again?

  Powerful eyesight adjusting quickly to darkness, Nellie took in the lie of the land, tall Edwardian windows, a lion couchant at each side of those double front doors. She recalled two knockers, again with lions’ heads, brass, a word printed somewhere, the name of the house. ‘I cannot read yet,’ she whispered.

  She would see the injured cherub soon, once she got close enough. The hall floor would be marble, black and white. There was a red room . . . Oh, dear God, no, please, no, have mercy upon me, your child. Balustrade. Tiny infant, female, peering through the gaps, watching that lady, teacups on the lawn, dark laughter from him. Him. He was Father, strange smells, tobacco, amber fluid from a tantalus, crystal. Mother – ‘Don’t drink any more, Bertie.’ Here it came, now, full circle, dream spilled into reality, sanity a lifetime away.

  Lily, poleaxed to the spot, could only watch and wait. Ah, here came Dot with her new husband.

  At the rear of the house, there would be cobbles, a horse trough, stables forming three sides of a square, the house itself providing the fourth, except for gaps, gates, latches high, she would have to climb the gate to lift the mechanism. The wail of dry hinges, Father’s dogs barking. Red. He wore a red coat, many horses, many dogs, the wail of a horn. Run, foxy, run. So much scarlet, such anger, very little love from the man.

  Lily rushed to greet Dot and Peter. ‘I can’t do nothing with her,’ she jabbered, ‘she’s come over all peculiar, like.’

  Peter left Lily to the care of Dorothy, ran to the side of the woman whose neighbour he had terminated. ‘Miss Hulme?’ he asked.

  She turned slowly, like one in a dream, a person forced to obey the farcical rules of unreality. ‘I am Helena,’ she said.

  A shiver ran the length of Peter Smythe’s spine, but he held himself together. ‘Take my arm, Helena,’ he suggested, the tone gentle and persuasive.

  ‘I know you,’ she replied. For one terrible moment, Peter thought that she had recognized him from his expeditions to Prudence Street, but no, she spoke in the voice of a child.

  ‘Come along,’ he urged.

  Nellie held her father’s hand as she walked the rest of the way. Father pretended to be kind, but he wasn’t. Bloodied birds hanging in a shed, eyes turned to glass, flesh decaying into tenderness for cooking. Large table, white from scrubbing, beefy arms on the woman who made the meals. ‘Where’s Mother?’ she asked.

  ‘We shall find her,’ was the answer from Peter Smythe.

  They walked up the steps and she knew that there would be seven, dips in their centres worn down by many years of feet, touched a pillar that supported the outer porch. Twin lions, twin doors, black and white marble on the hall floor.

  Pulling herself away from her guardian, not noticing groups of people chattering and laughing, she walked to the staircase. Yes, handrail in reddish-brown wood, stairs that curved away and round towards . . . the red room.

  Peter remained at the foot of the stairs. He turned to his wife. ‘Go and find Miss Earnshaw, she is the head teacher – a very approachable woman – I do the gardens sometimes. Go, Dorothy. Something very strange is afoot here.’

  The knob was in reach – she had grown. When the door swung inward, Nellie Hulme failed to see the headmistress’s office with its desk, filing cabinets and bookcases. Instead, Helena saw a four-poster, its side curtains half drawn, its foot facing the door.

  Father roared at her, ‘Go away, Helena.’

  But she could not move. Nailed as firmly as Christ to His cross, she watched a small body, saw it lifted high into the air, a woman holding its feet as if it were an item in a butcher’s shop. The noise came then, a horrible sound that cut through her head as if threatening to slice it in two. Mother screamed and screamed and . . . And the red, the red . . .

  White sheets, father shouting, that woman holding the newborn. White sheets stained, red flowing, pumping as if some mechanism stronger than a human heart drove it onward, outward until it filled the room, flooded the house, poured and poured and the scream would not stop.

  She raised her hands, covered her ears, she was Helena, was Nellie, was two people. Lace at the windows, lace on the sheets, white lace edging pillow cases, lace in an upstairs room at home, Prudence Street. Lily. Where was Lily? That thin scr
eam, baby crying, cover those ears tightly, do not hear. Deaf. The colour of deafness was solid red, darkening, closing in, no more birdsong.

  Father slammed the door in Helena’s face; Nellie left the headmistress’s study. A clock chimed. ‘I can hear,’ she said aloud, just to make sure.

  They came for her then, Dot Barnes-as-was, Peter Smythe, the head of the school, Lily Hardcastle, her forehead lined deep with worry. There was a fuss, a cup of sweet tea, the faces around her were kind. But it was over.

  ‘Miss Hulme,’ Martha Earnshaw touched the stricken woman’s arm, ‘would you like to go home? I can arrange transport.’

  ‘No. Thank you, but no. I have come to see my friend’s daughter in the play. Yes, my voice is strange, but I was profoundly deaf until some months ago.’

  Dot, Peter and Lily glanced at each other. ‘Are you sure you want to stay?’ asked Lily eventually.

  Nellie nodded. Oh, yes, she was determined to stay. She handed cup and saucer to the headmistress, smoothed her hair, picked up her bag. Then, in a voice that was unusually clear, she dropped her bombshell. ‘My name is Helena and this was my house.’

  Mother was cast out without a penny to her name. But she did not go quietly. Just before she died, she gave me the silver-headed cane which has become a part of my uniform. The spherical handle is worn now, but the crest remains partly visible, while the initials of my father, BM, intaglio and partially erased by time, seem as clear to me as they did then, just days before her death.

  Katherine shifted uneasily, the slight movement causing her to wince. Peter Smythe had stated earlier in the work that he had deliberately returned to the scene of his male parent’s misdeeds, that his original intention had been to register his claim against any estate. But, as he had also said, how could he prove paternity? And why was her skin crawling so?

  With that cane, Mother smote the man who had so mistreated her, then she kept it as a souvenir, a memento of her life with the man who had introduced her to the fruits of Bacchus. Then she moved to Northampton where, rejected and neglected by friends and family, she gave birth to me.

  Our life was not unhappy. Mother taught sons and daughters of the rich, dragging me in her wake wherever she went. Thus I gained my knowledge and my love for the English language, for the classics, for paintings and music. I learned languages modern and ancient, mathematics, geography and history, all at differing levels dependent on the age of her pupils on any given day.

  I was lucky. My education was wide and varied, while my mother encouraged me to read anything and everything within reach.

  Her drinking worsened until we reached a point where she could no longer work. Even then, she would imbibe infrequently on weekdays, saving the more glorious moments for weekends.

  Glorious moments became spectacularly bad. Her skin yellowed and became an outward advertisement for the state of her liver. As she lay in her bed during those final weeks, I became her nurse, her companion, her comforter. Realizing only too well that she was the architect of her own doom, she apologized repeatedly, sobbed in my arms, told me that she loved me and that I had been the light of her life.

  She had but two days to live when, her mind as clear as a bell, she summoned me to her bedside. In a steady voice, she told me who I was, identified the man who was my father. It transpired that she had taken a job in the north of England, a governess’s position that was residential. Her charge was a young girl whose mother had died in childbirth, an only child who needed a sensible woman in her life. Judged as sensible, Mother moved into the house and took responsibility for the child’s educational and emotional welfare.

  Mother’s employer plied her with gifts, with hints of marriage, courted her so determinedly that she succumbed to him. The drinking began then, while the man attempted to persuade Mother to abort me. But she refused to listen to him, refused to go into the exclusive clinic where certain secret procedures were executed.

  Finally, he turned on her. She packed her belongings that night, fought him off, beat him across the head with the very cane I carry on a daily basis.

  History speaks for itself. The man who fathered me, who abandoned my mother, raged his way to death by the very same means which abbreviated the life of my adored and wonderful mother. He drank away all his possessions and was laid to rest many years ago.

  Thus I find myself . . .

  The story continued, his life on the road, rejection by the army because of a spinal curvature, his eventual arrival at the place where he was conceived.

  Katherine Moore closed the book. There remained no vestige of doubt in her mind – Peter Smythe was her half-brother.

  Twenty

  The play was a roaring success.

  Beth, hilarious as the villain, stalked about the stage, trained her young pickpockets, even sent some of them into the audience, where the screams of parents and siblings made the occasion all the funnier.

  It was a clever piece of work, one that underlined the high standards of Chedderton Grange academy. In the interval, a string quartet played, delivering pieces whose excellence was certainly upheld by girls almost too small to control their instruments. This was clearly the place for Beth to be, thought Magsy as she enjoyed the talent on display.

  Paul dug her gently in the ribs. ‘Nellie looks a bit fussed,’ he whispered.

  Magsy glanced across to where Lily and Nellie sat together. Nellie’s face was flushed and she seemed not to be concentrating on the events that surrounded her. Perhaps her hearing was not quite right yet. Nellie Hulme had been forced to learn everything all over again and had possibly experienced difficulty while interpreting noises delivered by the lightweight voices of young girls. But Magsy noticed that Lily, too, seemed slightly out of order, eyes sliding sideways towards her companion, hands picking nervously at the scarf in her lap.

  As this was the interval, several people were milling about and talking quietly, voices muted so that the playing of the excellent string quartet would not be drowned. Magsy rose from her seat, caught Lily’s eye and beckoned her to the rear of the hall.

  Lily told Nellie that she intended to get some refreshment, then she joined Magsy at the back of the room. ‘Dear God,’ she muttered, ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’

  Magsy pulled her old neighbour out into the foyer. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Lily’s eyebrows shot northward as if they intended to disappear into her hairline. ‘What’s wrong? What’s right would make a shorter list. I’d want a bloody crystal ball to work out what’s gone on here tonight. I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Just tell me. Come on, Lily, it’ll be the second act in a minute and my Beth will get her comeuppance – I can’t wait to see it. And you’ll want a cup of tea to take back to Nellie.’

  Lily swallowed hard. ‘Well, it’s this way. You know how Nellie goes on about red and screams and birds singing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All them years when she couldn’t hear nowt except when she were asleep?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘It were here, Magsy. It were here. This is where she comes from. It’s this house what were in her dreams. She knew where the bedroom was – well, it’s not a bedroom now, it’s like an office. Her mam died here, I think. Ooh, I don’t know. I mean, I think I know, but I’m not sure.’

  Magsy’s thoughts were all over the place, bouncing about like a ball in a game of O’Leary. ‘But she might have dreamt about a house similar to this.’

  Lily nodded quickly. ‘Then why has she got a newspaper cutting, a photo of this house left in Prudence Street by her mother? By Mrs Hulme, I mean. I recognized it right off tonight when we got here, knew them lions near the front door and that there fancy fountain.’

  Magsy chewed on her lip. ‘The dreams could have come from the photograph. We may have this all the wrong way about altogether. She saw the picture and it sat deep in her mind, coming out only when she was asleep.’

  Lily disagreed. ‘That photo were year
s in yon cupboard, Mags. You know the state that place were in till she kicked off sorting it out. I were there when she started on her mam’s sewing cupboard. I can tell you now that nowt had been disturbed on them shelves for many a year. Then there’s that other photo, the one she says is her real mam and dad. I know it’s very old and brown, like, but why was that there? I can tell you now, there’s a look of Nellie round that woman’s face, and I can tell you why that photo’s there and all. It’s there because Mrs Hulme knew who Nellie really were.’

  Magsy’s left hand found its way to her throat. Surely not? Surely—

  ‘She’s from money,’ continued Lily. ‘She still gets money. Not a lot, but enough to keep body and soul together. The rest, the lace money, she saves. Aye, it’s very fishy, is this.’ She dropped her voice even further. ‘I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more. There’s summat about Nellie Hulme, summat as was there even when she were filthy. It’s called class. Her’s a lady, Mags. And she’s as rich as bloody royalty, thousands in the bank.’

  ‘Nellie has worked hard and she has saved,’ replied Magsy.

  Lily fished around in her mind, could not lay her tongue across the words she needed. It wasn’t the money, wasn’t this house, wasn’t anything tangible. The fact remained that Nellie Hulme was set apart, was different from the normal run of folk. Lily wished that she had time to read more, to learn the words she needed to express herself, but lacemaking, collecting items for the stall, placing orders among homeworkers – all these tasks required time and concentration.

  They collected cups of tea and hurried back to their seats. The curtain rose, Beth O’Gara sobbed her way through Ferocia’s downfall, Olivia Tangle was saved and all was well with the story.

  When the applause died down, Paul and Magsy rose to leave. ‘What was all that about in the interval?’ he asked.

  Magsy sighed. ‘I have no idea. But I suspect we have some interesting days ahead of us.’