The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

  Now to find out what the old bugger was up to.

  ‘Jenkins what?’ roared Grandfather Baxter and Evadne lowered her chin and looked down at the petersham bow trim and pointed toes on her shoes to conceal her gratification. Her feet were placed neatly side by side, one slightly forward of the other, on the wine-red carpet in Grandfather’s sitting room, soon to be her sitting room too.

  Raising her eyes to meet, and silently celebrate, Grandfather’s fury, she repeated what she had said about the desertion and execution, and how Mother had kept the shameful secret, with Grandfather’s complexion all the while going purple and mottled in a most satisfactory way. She allowed an interval for him to bluster and harrumph and exclaim ‘Good gad!’ a few times, then she got down to business.

  ‘There’s been all manner of repercussions.’ She spoke mildly. That would rile him more than vexation. ‘Miss Reilly left and Carrie’s young man has jilted her.’

  ‘Good job you don’t live there. Best keep your distance.’

  She dropped her glance to hide the triumph in her eyes. The distance would be all the way to Parrs Wood if she succeeded.

  ‘The school governors don’t want me to return in September and Miss Martindale feels she can no longer offer me a home.’

  ‘If the lodger’s gone, there’s room for you back at your mother’s.’

  ‘Well – until the end of term, maybe. But after that …’

  Her words of acceptance were ready on her lips, but instead of inviting her into his home, Grandfather went off on a different tack.

  ‘Good gad! And to think I’ve been sending her ten shillings a week. She must have known I’d never have dreamt of subbing her had I known the truth.’ He slapped his hands down on the carved mahogany arms of the chair. ‘Ten shillings a week for four years! Fetch me a pen and paper, Evadne. What does that add up to?’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve been helping Mother with money?’

  ‘Ten bob a week! She’s had a small fortune off me. I thought I was doing the decent thing, helping out with the rent and coal and whatnot, and all along she’s been taking me for a fool.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Heat flushed through her body. ‘She never told me you gave her money.’ If there had been money being handed out, it should have been given to her. She was Grandfather’s flesh and blood, while Mother was merely his daughter-in-law. Not even that. His former daughter-in-law.

  ‘I did it out of duty to Philip – your father. Never could understand what he saw in her and now I’ve been proved right. She should have stayed a widow but, oh no, she had to go and shackle herself to a bally coward. A deserter! My God! A deserter – and I’ve been helping support his widow. If the members of my club hear about this, I’ll be blackballed.’

  He snatched the silk handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed his forehead.

  ‘Grandfather.’ She raised her voice. ‘I’m reverting to the Baxter name.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. Just watch out when people ask why. Don’t mention that Jenkins scoundrel, whatever you do. Ten shillings a week for four years!’

  Shoving the handkerchief into his pocket, he came to his feet, headed for the door, threw it open. Evadne blinked in surprise.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Where do you think? To see my solicitor, of course, and cancel his instruction concerning your mother’s weekly postal order.’

  ‘It’s Saturday afternoon. He won’t be in his office.’ Panic fluttered. She had to keep him here, had to make him concentrate on her predicament.

  ‘You think I’d take this to the office, where it might be overheard? No, I’ll catch him in the privacy of his own home. Best way – safest.’

  He gave a jerky wave of the arm, which might have been in farewell or could have signified furious frustration, and then he was gone. She heard him banging about in the hall, shouting for his hat and his cane; she heard the housekeeper’s scurrying footsteps – the very housekeeper whom she had intended to supplant when she became mistress of this gracious house.

  The front door slammed and the air around her vibrated with frustration.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ralph ghosted his way down the back entries until he stood outside the Jenkins’ house. The wooden gate might be in need of a lick of paint, but someone had kept the hinges oiled and it opened quietly on to a tidy yard – mangle in the corner, tin bath hanging on the wall next to the rainwater butt, a pot of herbs on top of the coal-hole. Ducking beneath the washing line, he cracked open the back door on to the scullery. Brooms and pail, clothes horse, roller towel, the copper, two sinks – not bad. This might be a simple two-up two-down, but if it had separate sinks for dishes and clothes, it was a better place than he had thought. His opinion of the widow went up a notch.

  The door to the kitchen was ajar. Good.

  Dad’s voice. ‘I’ll tell thee straight, Mrs Jenkins. You need protecting from your husband’s actions.’

  ‘Mr Armstrong, please—’

  ‘Nay, madam, let me finish. I can offer that protection. I’m prepared to buy a house. Buy, mind, not rent.’

  Buy? Where was the money to come from?

  ‘Somewhere with indoor plumbing and a garden, electrics too, maybe, and right away from here. By the sea, if that suits you. Southport’s reet grand, or Lytham St Anne’s. Young Carrie can come too, and welcome.’

  Southport, Lytham. As far away as you damn well please.

  Mrs Jenkins whispered, ‘What would your lads say? Aren’t they expecting to have the shop one day?’

  ‘Not Adam. I paid for him to get a fancy education and he’s a doctor. As for Ralph – well, yes, in different circumstances he would get the business; but he can get a job in one of them posh antiques places in town. He’s even mentioned us having an auction room – as if we have time for that! But if auctioning is what he’s set his heart on, working in a posh place on Deansgate would be a good move. He might even see if there’s an opening at that auction place in Chester – Foster and Whatsits. Don’t fret, I’ll see him all right for money.’

  Ralph’s heart caught between his ribs. So this was it. The old bastard wanted to wrench the business away from him. He planned to sell the whole bloody concern to the highest bidder so he could piss off and grow roses in Southport. All Ralph’s years of work counted for nothing. All the years he, Dad and Adam had assumed – more than assumed, had known, dammit, known – that the business would one day be his were to be dashed aside. Bung him a few hundred and send him to Deansgate – did Dad really think that was enough?

  Did he really think Ralph would permit it?

  And it wouldn’t be just Ralph’s inheritance he was selling. It would be the highly lucrative future that he and the others had bided their time and waited for. His associates wouldn’t tolerate being let down. Just see what had happened to Jonty Fellowes when he pulled out.

  He wouldn’t let it happen, by Christ he wouldn’t, and he would deal with it now, here, in this house, in this kitchen. Contain the damage. Before she could accept the escape route on offer. Before Dad could march off to Brookburn with the glad tidings. Before anyone else could know what had been suggested. Kill it now. Kill it before it could grow.

  How could Dad do this to him? How could he show him such lack of concern, such disrespect?

  Heat pumped round his body, preparing him. His brain surged with small explosions of argument, persuasion, anger. He barged through the door, seeing everything at once; the war had taught him that. Two faces turned to him, eyes wide, mouths slack. They were sitting facing one another across the kitchen table.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at? Sell everything and fob me off with a job on Deansgate? Not on your life. That’s bloody outrageous.’

  ‘Watch your language in front of a lady.’

  ‘My language is the least of your problems. You want to retire – fine. Off you go, and about time too. But you don’t need to sell the business and you don’t need to buy a hous
e.’

  ‘I’ll do as I please.’ Dad came to his feet, the chair screeching on the tiled floor.

  ‘You damn well won’t.’ Ralph strode forward. He squared his shoulders and expanded his chest. ‘I’ve worked in that shop my whole life. I was running errands and doing small deliveries when I was eight years old. Every minute I wasn’t at school, I was in the shop, watching, learning, listening to you and Weston discussing pieces, pricing them. Adam never did that, even before he got his high-and-mighty calling. But I did, because I knew what I wanted – and you’re not taking it away.’

  ‘Nay, your ideas for the shop are pie in the sky. Adding an auction room – have you lost your senses? If you keep the shop, you’ll end up losing everything because of your fancy ideas. You want a better class of customer – go to Deansgate. You want auctions – go to Chester. But don’t kid yourself I’m going to let you run my business into the ground. I’m doing you a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ He took another step forward, crowding the old fool. He planted his feet apart, jutting his chin, but kept his voice low. ‘Destroying my inheritance – a favour? You think I can’t manage the business? You’re the one that can’t cope. You’re stuck in the past. Who needs a delivery van when there’s a perfectly good horse and cart? Who needs elegant displays when you can cram the windows full to bursting? Who needs modern ideas when you can carry on as if Victoria is still on the throne? Your time is over. You’re holding me back; you’re holding back the business. I don’t care what you do as long as you do it somewhere else and leave me to build up the shop as it deserves – as I deserve. I worked hard for this. I’ve fought in a war, for God’s sake; and I did it in the expectation of getting the business when I came home. This is my time, old man. Your time is over, finished.’

  A potent mixture of resolve and triumph poured through his veins. He took a step closer, forcing his father to step away, step backwards; old man giving way to young, old ways and old values submitting before the inevitable might of the new, the enterprising, the ambitious.

  ‘You come barging in here—’ Dad blustered.

  ‘When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell Adam first? Was I to be the last to know?’

  Another step; a corresponding step back. The school bully all over again. The strutting step, the probing glare, the gratifying contempt in the thrust-out chest.

  ‘You think you can take away what is rightfully mine?’ He delivered a sharp jab to his father’s breastbone; Dad stumbled back a step. ‘I’ve earned that business. You can’t manage without me.’

  Dad’s chin flew up. ‘I managed well enough during the war. You’ve got above yourself since you came back, thinking you know better’un I do. Why d’you think I’ve stopped on so long? To save the business from you, that’s why, you and your “modern ideas” – modern claptrap, more like. I’m not letting you have that business for you to overreach yourself. No one’s ever going to say Armstrong’s went downhill.’

  Another step forward. This time Dad held his ground. They were chest to chest. From his superior height, Ralph regarded his father, his lip curling as he took in the deep lines that ran from nose to mouth, the puffiness under his eyes, the slackness in his cheeks, the stringy neck above his collar. Joseph Armstrong was old. A has-been. A stupid old duffer clinging to the past because he had lost the ability to look to the future. And he thought he could stand up to his son. Pathetic.

  Ralph spoke in a murmur, the words almost a caress. ‘You’re not selling up. You’re retiring and I’m having the shop.’

  ‘You can’t stop me. Tek your modern ideas and see how they fare on Deansgate, or if you’re that fixed on auctions, go to Chester, but you’re never having auctions at Armstrong’s.’

  The man was a joke. He wasn’t listening. Didn’t he know what a mistake it was not to listen to Ralph Armstrong? Didn’t he realise Ralph was going to win? Ralph Armstrong always won.

  Power flooded Ralph’s hands: his gloves felt tight; his muscles were hot and ready. He grasped his father’s lapels and in a fluid movement hoisted him onto his toes.

  ‘Armstrong’s is going to have an auction room.’

  And he threw the old codger from him, casting him away as he deserved. Dad’s arms flailed; his feet caught and stumbled and he went over backwards, right down to the floor. There was a crack of bone as the back of his skull struck the corner of the hearth. A dark stain slid from beneath his head.

  A strangled exclamation and the sound of chair legs scuffing the floor made Ralph look at the widow. Her face was pasty and beaded with sweat, her mouth hanging open. She breathed in small hiccoughing gasps.

  God preserve us from hysterical females. Peeling off a glove, Ralph dropped his fingers to his father’s neck. Nothing. Dead, then. And his vile, treacherous plan dead with him. Ralph felt the muscles in his face shift and settle into a mask of resolution. He pulled on his glove.

  ‘Is he … is he …?’ she spluttered.

  ‘Dead? Yes.’

  With one hand pressed to her throat, she extended the other and pointed a quivering finger.

  ‘You killed him … you murdered him …’

  Stupid bitch. He moved swiftly to her. She stood transfixed. The pointing finger fluttered and dropped. The other hand trailed from her throat and down her bosom.

  Before he could speak, something in her changed. Something in her face. A slackening of the mouth, a strange drooping of an eyelid. One arm fell to her side as though it was too heavy to hold up. Her mouth worked, but not properly. A ragged gurgle struggled out. Then she crumpled.

  Well, that was unexpected.

  And lucky.

  The last thing he needed was to be linked to his father’s death. Bad for business. Catastrophic for his associates’ plans. And if Ma Jenkins had taken it into her thick skull to think he had killed the old man on purpose, that would stir things up horribly. His word against hers. Messy.

  He had come here to deal with a problem; and he had dealt with it, albeit in a way he hadn’t foreseen. No point in leaving a potentially dangerous detail behind. She had accused him of murder. If she woke up, she would scream it from the rooftops. Can’t have that.

  She had called him a murderer. It was only polite to let a lady have the last word.

  Plucking the cushion from the armchair, he dropped to his knees beside her. Holding the cushion in both hands, he positioned it over—

  The front door opened, a small sound but his heightened senses caught it. The snooty bitch was back. He tossed the cushion onto the chair and dived into the scullery, leaving the door open a trifle to watch through a crack.

  The kitchen door opened, but instead of the tall, thin female, there stood the loveliest girl he had ever seen. A fist seemed to close around his heart and when it relaxed, a great surge of heat and desire scorched through him. She was shorter than the snooty bitch, and with more flesh on her. Not plump, in fact you could see she needed feeding up, but there were some decent curves that a red-blooded man would relish the feel and the taste of. A gentle face, fairish hair, a clear complexion and, in that first instant of entering the room, the sunniest smile he had ever seen. God, she was captivating. Had Dad ever mentioned her name? Why hadn’t he listened? How could he not have listened when she was mentioned?

  How could he ever have imagined he loved Molly Slater?

  Her smile froze and faded as she took in what was before her. His heart ached. A cry was wrenched from her and it was all he could do to prevent himself from leaping across the room and dragging her into his arms. That was where she needed to be: in his protective embrace – for ever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carrie’s sigh came from so deep inside that it almost dragged her bones to the surface. She still felt numb after yesterday’s horrifying events, yet now she must wrench her mind away and meet Billy. Before yesterday afternoon, he had been all she could think about. Now, it felt as if that part of her life lay at the far end of a long tunnel.

&nb
sp; She gazed at Mam’s slackened features. Would it help her, would it make her come back to them, if Carrie told her she was going to be a grandmother? Or would she be appalled to learn that her lass wasn’t a nice girl any more?

  Not that Carrie could have whispered any such confidence anyway, not with Letty sitting on the other side of the bed, holding Mam’s other hand. Letty might be her best friend, and ten times the sister to her that Evadne was, but she didn’t know about the baby. Carrie had planned to tell her after the wedding, when Letty was helping her out of her veil. She had planned to whisper, ‘Now that Billy’s made an honest woman of me, I’ll let you into our secret. You’re going to be an auntie.’ She had imagined Letty’s squeal of joy a hundred times; but if she told Letty now, Letty would say, ‘No wonder you couldn’t let him go,’ and even if she didn’t say it, she would be thinking it.

  Carrie squeezed Mam’s hand. It was a stroke, according to the doctor.

  ‘Best if she just slipped away,’ he had said.

  At first it had looked like an accident, Mr Armstrong having tripped and fallen, striking his head on the hearth, and Mam then collapsing, unable to bear this calamity on top of her other troubles. But last night the police had suggested something else. If Mr Armstrong had tripped – and what was there for him to fall over? – he would have fallen forwards or sideways, not straight over backwards. Could someone have entered their house and attacked him? But then, wouldn’t there be signs of a struggle, some other injury, a bruise on his face perhaps? And who could it have been? Surely not someone infuriated about Pa, barging in to give Mam a piece of his mind? Had Mr Armstrong paid the ultimate price for protecting her?

  None of the neighbours had seen or heard anything. The lone witness was Mam and she couldn’t speak, didn’t respond in any way, maybe never would again.

  Best if she just slipped away.

  Carrie dipped her face to the pillow to whisper in Mam’s ear. ‘I have to see Billy. You’d wake up, wouldn’t you, to be the mother of the bride? I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t at my wedding.’ A tear burnt its way down her cheek.