The morning Ralph found her stoning the doorstep, he hauled her unceremoniously up to the flat.
‘If you shame me like that again, so help me, I’ll belt you one.’
She stared. ‘I were only doing the step. Any decent housewife does that.’
‘Not – women – with – chars.’ He spread out the words as if she were stupid. ‘My wife doesn’t demean herself or shame me by cleaning the doorstep.’
And that was that.
There used to be a daily cook called Mrs English, who had seen to the needs of Ralph and his father, but Carrie wanted to do her own cooking and Mrs English had been happy to retire.
‘Doing your own cooking is all right for now,’ said Ralph, ‘but we won’t always live over the shop. When I get us a house, we’ll use hired help for everything.’
‘But I like cooking.’
‘Then you’d better make the most of it while we’re still in the flat, hadn’t you?’
And that was that.
Mrs Porter, the char, was a wisp of a creature, but she possessed an unexpected wiry strength and was a big help in taking care of Mam. Remembering how Mrs Randall had treated her, Carrie treated Mrs Porter as well as she could. It was amazing to find herself in such an elevated position. To send a servant home with a slice of cold pie in her basket made her feel like a real lady.
Mam had been installed in one of the bedrooms in the flat. Carrie talked to her about anything and everything: the shop, the weather, the price of meat, what she could see from the window, housewives going by with shopping baskets, the comings and goings at the Lloyds on the corner opposite, where the auctions were held in a spacious function room. She had even, in a dark sort of way, got used to receiving no reply.
It was strange what you could get used to. Look how she had got used to living with Ralph. Her life bore no resemblance to the one she had spent years daydreaming about, yet here she was, getting on with it. That was how to cope: keep busy, don’t think about it, just do it.
She told Mam about their comfortable home, wanting her to know they had fallen on their feet.
‘We’ve got a real inside bathroom with a bath that has feet like a lion’s paws, and a gas geyser, and an indoor privy in its own little room. Let me put your hand on this so you can feel it. Ralph has given me a tablecloth of real linen. It’s snowy white and there are scoops of lace all round the edges – can you feel them? This goes on the table for meals and there’s a dark-red chenille cloth to cover it the rest of the time. Ralph gives me plenty of housekeeping money and on top of that he gives me spends every week, though I’m supposed to call it pin money.’
As for the food – she had heard of people who could buy a Sunday joint big enough to last, cold or curried, hashed or minced, until Thursday, and now she was one of them. Anxious for Ralph not to mind being served fish every Friday, she picked the fishmonger’s brains for tasty ideas and, after weeks of frantic stirring, had mastered the tricky business of making sauces without lumps.
‘D’you think if you slather it in gooseberry sauce, I won’t know it’s fish?’ he had enquired. Then he grinned. ‘Bake it in cider. My ma used to do that.’
It sounded vaguely sinful to cook Friday fish in alcohol; but then she recalled the beery fumes that informed midnight Mass every Christmas Eve, so why not? If it pleased Ralph, that was reason enough. She wanted him to be glad he had married her, wanted to make up for not loving him. That he was in love with her – passionately – she had no doubt. Look at the way he had wooed her so determinedly and swept her off her feet – or so he thought.
She still went cold when she thought how she had hurled herself at him. Not that she could remember it as such, thanks to the alcohol. She was ashamed of getting drunk, but could she have gone through with it had she been sober?
She had awoken the following morning to an empty memory, a cracking headache, tender thighs and a tongue like an old doormat. Pleading illness, she had skipped Mass, spending the morning slumped over the teapot, not daring to probe her memory. By midday she had revived sufficiently to start panicking. Suppose her forwardness had disgusted Ralph and she never saw him again. She had never behaved that way with Billy, wouldn’t have dreamt of it, and Billy would have been appalled.
Ralph hadn’t seemed appalled, though, when he came knocking that afternoon. She had been dreading seeing him, but he surprised her with a hug and the words, ‘You’re mine now,’ and relief had swamped her. How quickly could she announce her pregnancy and trust him to do the right thing? But even that worry was taken out of her hands. Within days they were man and wife.
Just over a fortnight into the marriage, not daring to leave it any longer, her face and neck had burnt as she murmured that it was early days and she couldn’t be sure, but it should have been her monthly this week, so maybe …
‘It was that time on the kitchen table,’ he said. ‘I told you that made you mine.’
It was a good job she was sitting down or her legs would have crumpled beneath her. She had got away with it. As payment to Ralph for marrying her and providing her, Mam and the baby with a secure existence, she vowed to be the best wife she could.
When Ralph wanted her to have her hair cut into the new shorter style, she was quick to obey, even though she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to look like she was aping Evadne, especially when the style looked as though it had been designed with Evadne in mind. The bob made her self-conscious, not quite herself any more, not that she said so to Ralph. He never seemed to notice that she was forever hooking her hair behind her ears every time it fell forwards.
Adam noticed, though.
‘Why do you do that? Your hair frames your face nicely when you let it hang.’
She gave him a smile. His goodness to Mam was never far from her thoughts. ‘It’s a nuisance. It gets in the way.’
‘What made you have it cut? Silly question. It’s the fashion nowadays.’
‘I’ve never bothered with fashion.’
‘You don’t appear keen on this one, anyway. Will you let your hair grow long again?’
‘Oh no! Ralph likes it. He’s the one who wanted it cut.’
Adam looked at her. ‘I prefer it long, myself.’
‘So do I,’ she said in a pretend whisper, ‘but don’t tell Ralph.’
‘Don’t tell Ralph what?’ And there was Ralph glowering in the doorway, mouth hard with anger.
‘We were discussing Carrie’s preferences in hairstyles,’ Adam answered easily, though Carrie’s heart was thumping.
‘If you want to have a personal conversation with a woman about her appearance, I suggest you get a wife of your own and leave mine alone,’ Ralph retorted and Carrie went cold at such rudeness. ‘Was there anything else or have you finished?’
‘I’ll be on my way.’ Adam stood up.
‘But I’ve asked him to eat with us,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty.’
‘Perhaps not today,’ said Adam.
‘Perhaps not,’ Ralph agreed and she winced at the sarcasm.
She didn’t say another word. She constantly reminded herself of the security and comfort Ralph provided. It was her job to keep things smooth for him so he didn’t get annoyed.
She was delighted to find one area in which she did please him. When she took an interest in the shop, he approved, and she was thrilled to find a niche for herself in doing the window displays, a skill that blossomed after Ralph complained about the overcrowded displays still there from his father’s time.
‘The old man wouldn’t let anyone else do the windows.’
Knowing how busy he was, now the auction room was up and running, she offered to lend a hand.
‘I did displays at Trimble’s.’ She tried not to mind when he laughed out loud.
‘This is hardly the same. Still, if you want to have a go, why not? I like the idea of having you here close to me.’
‘I’d be happy to provide any assistance you require,’ said Mr Weston.
Sh
e beamed at him. Mr Weston had a quiet way of moving about that made you feel the shop’s precious stock was in capable hands and his grey hair made him look distinguished. Immaculately turned out, he always wore a silk handkerchief in his top pocket. He had worked here for years and seemed to Carrie to know everything there was to know about fine things.
She spent ages on her task, selecting items, rearranging them, nipping outside to examine the effect from the passer-by’s point of view. When she had everything just so, she showed Ralph.
‘The trouble is,’ he observed and Carrie felt her skin prickle in anticipation of criticism, ‘that this is so good, it makes the other windows look even worse. You’ve got yourself a job, Mrs Armstrong.’
Displays had been her responsibility ever since, until a sudden increase in her girth made Ralph decide it wasn’t seemly for her to be seen working. Much as she loved being pregnant, it wasn’t easy pretending to be eight months gone when really she was overdue.
‘Hold on a little longer,’ she whispered to her baby. ‘Every extra day helps.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Oh – you’ve come,’ said Carrie, startled. ‘I never expected you on a day like today.’
Adam walked into Mrs Jenkins’ bedroom. She had the room at the front, which had once been his. He had hoped that by this time she would be sitting propped up in a chair, watching the world go by, but after all these months, she was still bedbound and immobile.
Not that there was any view today, what with the world wrapped in a dense fog that muffled and distorted sounds, and made it impossible to see even the length of your arm.
He smiled at Carrie – he couldn’t help it. Her smile of welcome was irresistible. She was always pleased to see him. Pleased. Not thrilled or delighted. Her heart didn’t leap at the sight of him, as his did when he saw her. She was pleased. That was all.
He put down his hat and unwound his scarf. ‘It was a harder journey than I expected, I must admit. I bumped into someone and said sorry, then realised I’d apologised to a pillar box.’
Carrie laughed. ‘Me and my friend Letty once blundered round Chorlton Park for two hours before we found the way out.’
‘It’s a proper pea-souper today.’
‘Grandpa used to call them phlegm fogs and Nana threatened to bash him with the saucepan for being disgusting.’ The memory brought a pretty smile to her lips. ‘Let me put your coat by the fire, mek it warm for you to put on.’
He shrugged his wool overcoat into her waiting hands. She had no qualms about standing close to him, no idea what her proximity did to his emotions. She popped a wooden chair in front of the bedroom fire and draped his coat over it.
He moved away. It wasn’t appropriate to be near her. She might not suspect anything, but he would never take advantage in any way.
Or was just being here taking advantage? Should he hand over the case to Todd? Would that be the honourable thing to do?
Possibly. But there was also the professional question. Mrs Jenkins was a puzzle. She had made no progress to speak of and that made him all the more determined to help her. He knew it wasn’t for the want of trying on Carrie’s part. She nursed her mother devotedly, working at her exercises every day without fail, and even though it must be uncomfortable for her now that she was nearing her time, she was the most devoted of the various family members who were supervised by Brookburn nurses on twice-weekly visits. If she ever got disheartened by her mother’s lack of progress, she never let it drag her down. You had to admire her pluck.
Adam went through his usual routine of examining Mrs Jenkins, then moved aside while Carrie straightened the bedclothes. Over the winter she had made a jolly patchwork quilt, using scraps with all kinds of textures to stimulate her mother’s sense of touch.
‘You’re a born looker-afterer,’ he told her. ‘You’ll be a wonderful mother.’
‘Mam’s always been a wonderful mother to me. I’m happy to take care of her. You hear that, Mam? You’re never to think you’re any trouble.’
She spoke lightly, but she looked pleased at his compliment. Pleased. Pleased to see him and pleased by his praise. Pleased.
Did Ralph pay her compliments? And what business was it of his, anyway?
He was hopelessly in love with his brother’s wife, and Ralph didn’t deserve her. He wasn’t the cherishing sort, and Carrie ought to be cherished.
‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go?’ she offered.
He would love it, would love the chance to enjoy her company. It would feed his soul until next time.
‘I mustn’t, I’m afraid. It took me ages to get here and I ought to make tracks.’
‘Thank you for coming through the fog to see us. We’re always pleased to see you – aren’t we, Mam?’
Pleased. Of course.
Bugger.
Ralph turned up the gas lamps in the shop, but it didn’t make much difference, not with that impenetrable yellow-grey mush pressing against the windows. Normally, Armstrong’s was bright, even on the dullest days, having those two splendid windows at the front and a third on the side, but the blasted fog put paid to that. It also put paid to a day’s custom.
It was funny how fog cut you off from everything. The rest of the world was out there in that clotted atmosphere, but so what? Fog made you feel separate and alone, something that disturbed him not in the least. He always felt separate, trusting no one, relying on no one. It would take more than a few socking great lumps of fog to make him feel uneasy about that.
And now he thought about it, was there someone he trusted? Did he trust Carrie? He supposed he did. For all that she thought she had got away with landing another man’s bastard on him, she was a decent girl with principles and a good heart. Her deception made it even more important to her to do right by him. She was beholden to him and that was how he liked it.
He wound his way between items on display to stand in the middle of the shop. The place was far more attractive than in his father’s day: gone was the clutter; the window displays were elegant and enticing; the shop floor pleasantly laid out with ample room to move. He felt at ease, in control, fulfilled. This was what he had always wanted and Dad’s death had been a reasonable price to pay.
Adam appeared from the back of the shop. Who’d be a doctor, eh, turning out on a day like this to see an old dummy?
‘How is she?’
‘No change.’
Good. That was how he liked it. Well, obviously, if she were to die, that would be perfect, but failing that, continued dummyhood would do.
As usual, Adam attempted conversation. Ralph wasn’t interested in small talk and he certainly wasn’t interested in cosying up to his brother. Fortunately, Adam, with one eye on the murk caking the windows, didn’t hang about. He opened the door, the bell’s tinkle almost swallowed by the curdled grot trying to ooze its way in. Adam vanished into the sludge.
Good riddance.
When it was time to close for dinner, he gave Weston the rest of the day off, glad to lock up behind him. Maybe he would get run over and killed in the fog.
With the fog holding the world at bay, Ralph’s whole world was here, everything that mattered – his business and Carrie, his two most precious possessions. His world.
And the waxwork.
He went upstairs. Carrie was in the kitchen.
‘I’m about to dish up,’ she called. ‘Shan’t be a minute.’
He walked along the landing to the front bedroom. It had amused him to suggest Adam’s old room for the dummy. He didn’t often come in here. Just sometimes, when Carrie was busy or out. Or asleep.
She had drawn the curtains against the fog. As if her mother could possibly appreciate it, but that was Carrie for you. He looked at the figure in the bed, the shell that used to be Carrie’s mother, the object of Dad’s affection. ‘Object’ was the right word. Not a person any more, not by any stretch.
People thought him good for taking her in, his mother-in-law – dummy-in-law �
� but the fact was, he hadn’t had a choice. Since she hadn’t had the common decency to snuff it, he needed her here to keep an eye on her.
He had thought in the early days, and still pondered on it from time to time, about helping her on her way. He’d be doing her a favour, really. Not that that was of any moment. He didn’t care about her in the slightest, other than to find her continued existence a nuisance.
He had come close to killing her. He had stood over her with the edges of the pillow bunched in his fists. She thought he had killed his father. Well, he had, and he wasn’t sorry, but it had been an accident. He had grabbed Dad’s jacket and shoved and Dad had cracked his idiotic head open on the hearth. An accident with a highly agreeable outcome.
But her last words, the dummy’s last words, the stupid bitch’s last words, had accused him of murder. Deliberate. Premeditated. Malice aforethought. Black cloth over the judge’s wig.
Her word against his. Hers, of course, would carry less weight. She was female. She had been married to a deserter. And who could say how much the stroke had mashed up her brain?
Even so.
Her blabbing would do untold damage to his reputation, even if no one believed her. He couldn’t risk that. She had to die.
But he couldn’t risk that either. Adam had been in and out every few days to start with, and since then a Brookburn nurse had come twice a week. Adam talked about recovery, never the possibility of death. If she were to snuff it unexpectedly, would he be able to tell she had been smothered?
So he had held off; and the improvement had never happened. If it ever did, he would review the situation, but for now …
Sometimes he talked to her. Not that he believed she could hear, or if she could, she couldn’t understand. Adam’s waxworks had nothing to speak of between their ears.
The Deserter's Daughter Page 14
