The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

  She stared – at him, at the flowers. He must have come to the wrong house. Yet she knew he hadn’t.

  He smiled. His eyes didn’t crinkle like his brother’s. ‘I brought you these.’

  She swallowed. Then she practically dragged him indoors before the neighbours could see him and think—she didn’t dare imagine what they might think.

  ‘That was more of a welcome than I was expecting,’ he said.

  He sounded amused. She wanted to chuck him straight back into the street.

  ‘I brought you these.’

  ‘You can’t give me flowers.’

  ‘Why not? They’ll cheer you up.’ He laid them on the table and stepped away.

  She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I can’t tek them. People would think …’

  ‘Think what?’

  Her ears burnt. She wouldn’t say it. She looked away.

  ‘Give them to your mother.’

  He said it in such a reasonable voice. Was it reasonable? She was too churned up to tell. But she would sound churlish if she refused. And it was kind of him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Inside her head, another job clanged into place on the never-ending list. Remember to remove the flowers from the bedroom when she drew the curtains tonight. Everyone knew flowers sucked the oxygen out of the night air.

  ‘Flowers for the invalid,’ he added, ‘though she’s in no state to appreciate them.’

  ‘She might smell them. Your brother said she might.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  She didn’t know how to respond. ‘Mrs Clancy will be here in a minute to sit with Mam while I nip to the shops.’ It wasn’t true, but she wanted rid of him.

  Once she had seen him out, she arranged the pinks in a vase, but finishing Evadne’s room and then washing and ironing kept her busy and the flowers were still on the kitchen table when Evadne arrived to see Mam. Too late to move them. Carrie stood in front of the table as Evadne opened the kitchen door.

  She looked strained and brittle, but nothing could diminish her beauty. She pulled off her hat and gave her wonderful conker-brown hair a shake, making its waves ripple. She wore a soft green blouse with elbow-length sleeves that ended in a froth of lace. Carrie ran her hands down the front of her pinny. Evadne was lucky to have a job that permitted her to wear pretty things. But she wouldn’t have the job much longer.

  ‘Any change?’ asked Evadne.

  ‘Still the same.’

  ‘I’ll sit with her. Put the kettle on, will you?’

  ‘Evadne, have you seen the housekeeping book? I can’t find it.’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I need it. I can’t work out how Mam managed now that I know there’s no widow’s pension.’

  ‘My grandfather paid her ten shillings a week. That’s how.’

  ‘That was generous of him.’ Wasn’t it? Why did Evadne sound so sharp?

  ‘More than generous, but it’s finished now, thanks to Pa. I’ll let you have the book tomorrow.’

  ‘Why did you take it?’

  ‘To see what happened to all those ten shillingses, to see if she’d saved anything; because if she had, and if she … dies, that money would be mine.’

  Carrie bridled. ‘You’re welcome to it.’

  ‘There’s none to be welcome to. She used it all keeping house.’ Evadne frowned. ‘Mind out of the way.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the pinks. ‘Not Billy, surely?’

  Carrie shook her head.

  Evadne groaned. ‘You’ve not got another in tow already?’

  ‘Of course not—’

  ‘There’s an old song about girls like you. Something about being off with the old love before you are on with the new. You’ll get yourself a reputation.’

  ‘They’re for Mam. Ralph Armstrong brought them.’

  ‘So he’s the new admirer?’

  ‘I told you. They’re for Mam.’

  ‘And I told you: you’ll get yourself talked about.’

  Adam was still fuming as he turned down Wilton Lane, but he wasn’t sure which of them he was annoyed with, Ralph or himself. They weren’t exactly the best of friends and, with Dad gone, it would be easy to let distance grow between them; but he was determined not to let that happen, so today he had set off early in order to take the long way round and go via the shop. When he rounded the corner onto Wilbraham Road, his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he saw the signwriter at work up a ladder outside the front of the building. Ralph was already having the shop’s name changed.

  He had felt a spurt of anger, and yet why shouldn’t Ralph do so? It was his shop now. Was he being childish to care? But he did care. It was as if Ralph was wiping Dad away. The funeral had taken place just yesterday, for pity’s sake.

  It had been decent of Carrie Jenkins to attend, the more so when you considered everything she had on her plate, poor girl. But she would cope, he felt sure. The first time he saw her, he had been ready to feel sorry for her, her dead father transformed from hero to coward in the twinkling of an eye, her mother rendered silent and immobile; but she had shown quiet determination in the matter of helping Mrs Jenkins and he was confident she would see it through. She might be a slip of a thing, and young to be carrying such a burden, but she had backbone.

  She had heart too, as her words after the funeral had shown. She had pierced the layer of conventional sympathy that had surrounded him, speaking directly to his sense of loss. He wouldn’t forget that in a hurry.

  When he knocked at the Jenkins’ door, a neighbour let him in.

  ‘Carrie!’ she called up the stairs. ‘Doctor’s here.’

  He hung his trilby on one of the coat pegs, ran upstairs and was in time to catch her rolling down her sleeves and stowing a broom in the corner. The window was open and there was a vase of flowers on the chest of drawers. The room was spotless, with a snap of fresh linen in the air, but there was no disguising the faint sour smell of incontinence beneath the tang of carbolic. The aroma was unavoidable, but she would be mortified if he mentioned it.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. I’ve drawn up an exercise regime for you, Mrs Jenkins.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Mam? We’re ready, aren’t we?’

  ‘May I?’ Adam removed his tweed jacket. ‘Here I am yet again minus my frock coat, but these clothes are more suitable for demonstrating exercises.’

  She removed a hanger from the cupboard and hung the jacket off the front of the door.

  ‘I’ll show you what to do,’ he said, ‘and then watch while you do it.’

  She drew a breath and nodded.

  ‘You’re a quick learner, Miss Jenkins,’ he said a while later. ‘There’s one more to show you. This involves bending the knee and pushing it towards the chest. You have to keep it straight, so position yourself like this.’ He demonstrated, then stood aside. ‘Your turn. Wait, that’s not quite right. Allow me.’

  He took her hand to place it in the correct position. A warm, tingling sensation jumped from her fingers to his, flooding him with surprise edged with delight. Recollecting himself, he showed her what to do and stepped back, his heart clattering against his ribs. His mind split in half. He spoke and behaved as the doctor; and at the same time, his thoughts and senses ran riot.

  ‘Is that right, Doctor?’

  ‘Yes – splendid.’ He cleared his throat.

  She smiled at him and his heart turned over. That smile! It made her face light up, imbuing her clear skin with dewy radiance and making her cornflower-blue eyes shine. He folded his arms, trying to contain the emotion lest it burst out. He stepped back, tilted his head, acting the part of the careful observer.

  ‘Go through the exercises once more to be sure you know them.’

  Damn! He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. Spinning out the visit was unprofessional – and that was a word he had never thought to apply to himself.

  He walked round to the other side of the bed, so there could be no possibility o
f physical contact, accidental or otherwise. Before she finished he put his jacket on, signalling the end of the visit.

  Walking back to Brookburn, Adam couldn’t tell which was swirling more, his thoughts or his feelings. He drew a deep breath, savouring the beautiful day, beautiful because Carrie made it so.

  He had to be sensible. He wasn’t allowed to form a relationship with a patient and while she wasn’t the patient, she had placed her trust in him as a doctor. He mustn’t take advantage, nor did he want to. His duty was to Mrs Jenkins and he would do his best for her. In doing so, he would also be doing his best for Carrie.

  That would have to satisfy him for now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The question was: would Carrie confess her condition and pray he wouldn’t run a mile or would she keep it secret and hope to pass off the baby as his? Ralph turned the possibilities over in his mind, fascinated by the ramifications. Either way, she needed a husband, and quickly. If she intended to pretend he was the father, she would have to lure him into bed: he didn’t know how far gone she was but she couldn’t afford to hang about. That suited him. He had no intention of waiting either.

  It had been irritating when she didn’t want to accept the flowers, but she hadn’t been able to refuse when he turned them into a gift for her mother. Now he needed another gift. She would be forced to accept and it would pile on both the discomfort and the gratitude. But what the hell constituted a suitable gift for a dummy? A present for a girl – easy. But something for a corpse that had forgotten to stop breathing?

  He took the question to the chemist’s.

  ‘Toilet water,’ said the chemist’s wife. ‘They can sprinkle a few drops in the water they use to wash her and it’ll make her skin smell nice.’

  ‘What’s the best you’ve got? Put it in a box and tie it with ribbon.’ No point in making this even vaguely easy for Carrie.

  Later, his stomach fluttered as he watched the gift tear her in two. She didn’t want to accept it, yet how could she refuse something for her mother? Except it wasn’t for Ma Jenkins and she knew it.

  ‘Your brother sent round sheets from Brookburn,’ she ventured.

  He wanted to kick Adam to hell and back for interfering with his girl, but he hid his anger behind a rueful smile.

  ‘His interest is professional, whereas mine …’

  She ducked her head, trying to conceal scarlet cheeks, and he felt a potent mixture of triumph and something strangely close to contempt.

  Carrie stepped free of the laundry’s steamy atmosphere, a weary sigh escaping her as the building’s excessive heat and damp loosened its grip on her skin, leaving it slick and oddly chilled. Her clothes were sticking to her and her scalp prickled; her hair felt thin. She rolled her aching shoulders. Laundry work was punishing and the sweltering atmosphere sapped her strength. Or perhaps it was the baby telling her to ease up. She had been lucky so far; no morning sickness, no tiredness: the perfect pregnancy – apart from a certain something missing from her left hand.

  What on earth was she going to do? Here she was, pregnant and alone, just like any common tart who would happily drop her knickers up against the entry wall for a port and lemon. She would be for ever marked as a slut and her baby would be a bastard, doomed to be pointed at and shunned by anyone with half a claim to decency; and that was before you took into account the difficulties of raising a child without a man’s wage behind you.

  A man’s wage and, more importantly, a man’s name.

  Suddenly, Ralph Armstrong filled her head. She didn’t want to think of him, but it was impossible not to. She didn’t want his attention – and yet she had to consider her predicament, not just the baby but Mam as well. Once she started showing, folk might say that here was the real reason Billy had jilted her – because she had let another chap have his way with her.

  She could turn to Father Kelly. He would sort Billy out and have the pair of them up the aisle quick sharp, even if poor Billy had to be carried on a stretcher.

  Her stomach gave a lurch of distaste. She would be ashamed if Billy had to be forced to marry her and part of that shame would be at marrying a man who was less than she had believed him to be. Her Billy, whom she had been so proud of, had shown a feeble streak. She had blamed it on the shock; she had blamed it on his mother; but in the end she had had to face the truth. Billy should have stood by her, and he should have done it all the more determinedly because of the baby.

  Now there was a voice inside her, whispering that he wasn’t good enough. Nevertheless, he was her baby’s father. But how would their marriage fare if Pa’s desertion spoilt his prospects? Would he resent his own child? The thought of her baby’s not being wholeheartedly loved and wanted tore at her conscience. She placed a hand protectively over her stomach.

  She wanted her baby with all her heart and she would do her best for it.

  But it would be a poor sort of best if she were an unmarried mother. And so she was back where she started, her thoughts pounding the familiar route. From the depths of the dread swirling in her heart sprang a rush of fury. Her baby needed a father – and it ought to be Billy. Dammit, it ought to be Billy.

  All at once, she found herself taller, shoulders back, chin up. Billy had made promises and she was entitled to have those promises honoured. ‘Breach of promise’ it was called when a man jilted you, and you could take him to court for it – well, you could if you had money. But she didn’t need the law; Father Kelly was the law around here. He would bring Billy into line for her – aye, and Mrs Shipton an’ all.

  With a brisk step that belied her clattering heart, she set off to confess her condition.

  Evadne scrutinised the pinks, seeking the smallest imperfection so she could declare them past their best and throw them out. Flowers for the invalid, indeed! Just like that expensive toilet water was supposed to be for Mother. Who did that wretched girl think she was fooling? And did Ralph Armstrong imagine he was being discreet? What did he see in Carrie, anyway? She was nothing special, just a shop girl, and another man’s cast-off to boot. If Ralph Armstrong had any taste, any sort of cultivation, he would have centred his hopes on Evadne, unable to resist her beauty and refinement. Not that she wanted his admiration, but it was frightening to think that perhaps she was past her best.

  It was all Mother’s stupid fault for marrying Pa. But for that, Evadne would have grown up in middle-class comfort with middle-class expectations, leading to a comfortable marriage with two or three well-behaved children, a couple of charity committees and a monthly dinner party to advance her husband’s career.

  Instead, she had been dumped into a life where she was a cut above everyone else. She hadn’t minded in the beginning, foolish child that she was. She had enjoyed it, befriending a group of sycophantic girls and basking in Pa’s admiration. He had thought it quite something for an ordinary fellow like himself to have such a well-spoken daughter.

  It was only later that reality gripped her. Leaving school was the moment when Grandfather should have claimed her. Instead, he used contacts at his club to fix her up at Oaklawn School.

  ‘It’s just until I get married,’ she had consoled herself.

  How many times had she dreamt of visiting Grandfather and finding the handsome bachelor son of one of his cronies … or his solicitor, there with papers for signing … or an eligible gentleman, recently moved in next door? How many dreams had she dreamt over the years? And what an unutterable waste of time they had proved.

  She closed her eyes. There were times when she felt as if she never wanted to open them again. But she was a soldier’s daughter and no one could accuse her of cowardice. She opened her eyes – and there were the flowers.

  They were flawless and something twisted inside her. Her gaze fell on the toilet water beside them. She might not be able to justify discarding the flowers, but she could do something about this. Raising her hand, she was about to swipe the bottle to the floor when an idea struck her. With a smile hardening her lips, s
he took the toilet water to her bedroom, feeling a small clutch of hurt and shame as she stood before the chest of drawers. At the schoolhouse, she had had a proper dressing table.

  Picking up a pretty cut-glass bottle, Grandfather’s coming-of-age gift, she undid the silver stopper. Carefully, she filled her bottle with toilet water. It was quite the best toilet water she had ever come across, its rose fragrance delicate but lasting. Wasted on Mother, and unsuitable for a chit like Carrie. Expensive and discreet: perfume for herself.

  Returning to Mother’s bedside, she replaced the half-empty bottle. There was no one else in the house. On Carrie’s first day at the laundry, the neighbours had told Evadne to her face that they expected her to come home promptly from school and do her share. It suited her not to have them buzzing round when she was in the house. She had nothing to say to the likes of Mrs Clancy.

  ‘I’ll top up the vase,’ she announced, glancing at Mother and then away. There was something about speaking to the invalid that made her go rigid inside, but Carrie had made such a song and dance about treating Mother as if she could hear that she had gone along with it to shut her up. Besides, what if Mother really could hear? The thought of a motionless body housing a conscious mind was too horrifying to contemplate.

  She gave the toilet water a sharp push. It banged on the floor but didn’t shatter. Retrieving it, she hurled it down, dancing away a couple of steps as it broke.

  ‘Butterfingers! What a shame, your lovely toilet water. I’ll clear it up.’

  The scent of roses lifted into the air. Evadne bustled away to fetch a cloth. Halfway downstairs she had to stop and lean against the wall. When had she become so contemptible?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carrie sat up straight. Inside she might be shrinking, but she wouldn’t let it show. Her gaze skimmed round the room, landing on the small statues of the Sacred Heart and Our Lady on the shelf, before she made herself meet Father Kelly’s eyes. He would be appalled when she told him. Her heartbeat quickened. It had been easy not to be ashamed when her wedding was imminent. Now – not so easy.