The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘Here,’ he said, sifting through the envelopes. ‘This one’s for you. What are you doing receiving letters?’

  She looked in surprise at the typewritten envelope. She tore it open. Inside was a single sheet, folded in half. She unfolded it and her heart gave an almighty lurch that cut off her breathing. On the paper were two words, each cut from a newspaper headline. She wanted to utter a great cry of shock and protest, but all that happened was that the paper fluttered from her fingers and twirled slowly to the floor. Even then, it didn’t land face down but lay with the words upwards:

  ​ BABY KILLER

  She broke out in a sweat. Dizziness swooshed through her and she was aware of Ralph springing forward to catch her.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  November 1921

  Carrie looked in the mirror. It wasn’t like looking at herself. Locked somewhere inside she had a picture of another Carrie, plump following pregnancy, breasts full and aching to be suckled, eyes bright with love and pride, hair a bit of a mess because Joey had cried the moment she started brushing it. That was the real Carrie. This person gazing solemnly at her was someone else, a stranger who had stepped into her life and taken it over.

  The girl in the mirror was thin. Her face was narrow, the cheekbones sharply defined beneath huge blue eyes that held an expression of reserve, which suggested she had a story to tell – or to keep to herself. A crisp bob framed features that looked both vulnerable and impassive. She was well dressed in a way Carrie, the old Carrie, had never been, Ralph’s generosity notwithstanding. Well, it had been difficult to do justice to smart clobber when you were as big as a tram and your swollen feet, squeezed into shiny new shoes, were desperate for the roomy comfort of a pair of clogs.

  The mirror-girl’s appearance was distinctly tailored. Her costume had a high Cossack neck and buttoned cuffs. A line of buttons added a severely stylish trim down the front of the narrow skirt, which fell to mid calf, a good three inches shorter than anything the old Carrie had ever worn, and her Wilton-Lane-bred heart found it flighty but didn’t care.

  These were her auction clothes. Deep down Carrie was aware she would rather be at Brookburn, doing whatever they asked of her, however menial; but that was what the old Carrie would have wanted, and she wasn’t the old Carrie now so it didn’t matter. The old Carrie had died along with Joey, and quite right too. What sort of mother could sleep peacefully while her baby died in her arms?

  She drew in a breath, but stopped herself before she could sigh it out. Sighing wasn’t allowed. Sighing smacked of self-pity. Carrie Jenkins didn’t deserve pity. She didn’t deserve compassion or sympathy or kindness. Carrie Jenkins was a liar. She had tricked her husband into marriage and fatherhood and then been unfaithful to him by falling in love with his brother. Carrie Jenkins had spent her whole life dreaming of being a wonderful mother. And a bloody great lie that had turned out to be.

  The only thing that wasn’t a lie was the poppy she wore on her lapel. They had sold paper poppies this year in memory of the hundreds of thousands of men who had died in the war. Ralph had told her about it and, seeing a poppy seller going into the Lloyds, she had marched across the road and thrust a week’s housekeeping into the collecting tin in return for two poppies, one for herself and one which she pinned to Mam’s pillow.

  But that Sunday, when she accompanied Ralph to St Clement’s, she had felt prickles of awareness. People were noticing, watching, murmuring, nudging one another, and she knew what they were saying. She hung her head. Her heart caved in, but she didn’t remove her poppy.

  Now she fetched her outdoor things to go to the auction room. She crossed the road. What would it be like to be hit by a motor car and die in the gutter? Entering the auction room, she experienced her usual sinking feeling. She wasn’t suited to the work. Sometimes she wondered why Evadne had liked being a glorified clerk; but Evadne would have enjoyed rubbing shoulders with the well-to-do, here to purchase beautiful and costly pieces. Carrie didn’t want to rub shoulders with anyone.

  Soon she was ready to start. This was the part she hated. She scanned the room for buyers she recognised. They were easier to approach than strangers. Her eye fell on Mr Kemp. The success of the monthly auctions meant that Ralph had been holding fortnightly sales since May and Mr Kemp attended every time. He always took a bidding number, but Carrie had never seen him bid. Not that that meant anything. Some people bid so discreetly that it amazed her that Ralph apparently never missed one.

  She had to list all the prospective buyers and issue them with numbers before viewing finished. After that, she went home, leaving everyone else to enjoy the hotel’s hospitality. Ralph didn’t think it appropriate for her to stay for lunch and she didn’t want to. She made sure she returned in good time. Better to wait around than slink in late.

  The auction began. Ralph kept things moving at a smart pace. Halfway down the list was a desk with a drop front, or a bureau as Ralph would call it. Mr Bennett, a private gentleman who was one of their regulars, was in competition with a dealer called Hathaway. Just as Mr Bennett shook his head and dropped out, Ralph evidently detected another bidder – Mr Kemp. When, two minutes later, the bureau fell to him, Carrie was pleased he had purchased something at last.

  The auction ended. She waited for permission to leave, trying to look busy while Ralph and Mr Larter worked their way round the room, shaking hands, commiserating with the unsuccessful, congratulating the buyers and discussing delivery. Carrie knew that on the other side of the door behind her, Charlie Harris and Tom Perry, who made the deliveries in the motor van Ralph was so proud of, would be hovering, crates and sacking at the ready. Arthur would be there too, ready to assist.

  Presently, Ralph helped her into her coat and she left.

  Letting herself in through their private front door, she started up the stairs, only to hear the smart click of the letter box behind her. Her knees turned to water. Would there be one today? That first letter had come as the most appalling shock, but it had never occurred to her that it might be followed by another. The second hadn’t come until June, the gap of so many weeks lending it an impact as great as that of the first. Since then she hadn’t felt safe, and the sound of the letter box was enough to turn her skin slick with fear.

  BABY KILLER. That had been the first message. The second had said MOTHER KILLS CHILD, its words, like those of its predecessor, snipped from newspaper headlines and gummed to blank paper. The stark accusation had plunged her into a frenzy of sobbing that all but cracked her ribs. Then, just two days later, while shock and distress were still dragging her down, a third letter had come. The arrival of the second had taught her that a third might follow, but there had been such a long gap between the first two …

  She had stared at the third envelope, its typewritten name and address taunting her. Something cold and sour had uncurled in her stomach and she knew that, whatever she did, she mustn’t open it. It had trembled between her fingertips. She knew the sender was right. Had Joey twitched, stirred, whimpered? Her slumber had been untroubled. Some mother she was.

  She had opened the third letter. Of course she had, despite Ralph’s instructions.

  ‘If another comes,’ he said after the second letter, ‘bring it straight to me.’

  Trembling with determination, she had disobeyed. She didn’t want Ralph to know there had been another letter. Not to protect him – well, yes, to protect him; but she wasn’t shielding him from her distress. She was protecting him from this vile opinion of her, fearing that exposure to these messages might turn him against her. He was being so kind. Raw with anguish, she clung to his strength.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he had said a hundred times; and a hundred times she had felt herself take another tottering step closer to the abyss.

  She forced herself to go downstairs. Blood rushed to her head as she stooped to retrieve the letters. Three of them – and all for Ralph.

  She propped herself against the wall. All for Ralph.
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  After fetching Ralph’s slippers and comfortable jacket, Carrie dished up, then paused before starting her own meal to watch him tucking in. It was meant to give you satisfaction, wasn’t it, seeing your husband enjoying what you had cooked for him?

  He glanced up. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  She began to eat. He never let her leave so much as a smear of gravy, yet she remained as thin as a twig.

  ‘Were you pleased with the auction? I’m glad Mr Kemp got that desk.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean, the bureau.’ It was faintly embarrassing to use fancy words, but Ralph preferred it.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, why would you notice?’

  ‘He’s never bought anything before, at least not since I’ve been there.’

  Had she somehow vexed him? Perhaps if he was annoyed, he might leave her alone tonight. But no. She knew that annoyance was the last thing to make him turn his back on her in bed. Quite the contrary.

  Ralph was eager for another child and was hammering away at her on a regular basis while she lay crushed beneath his sweating bulk. She desperately did not want another baby – not yet. It was far too soon. She wasn’t ready. Would she ever be ready?

  Everyone wanted her to have another baby – everyone – even women she had never done more than pass the time of day with in the queue at the grocer’s. No sooner had Joey died than they started on at her.

  ‘Eh, love, I’m that sorry. Have another one, that’s the best cure.’

  Cure? She didn’t want to be cured of Joey. She had stopped going shopping, sending Mrs Porter while she stayed indoors, spring-cleaning non-stop.

  The women from Wilton Lane had been no better. The day she ventured back to church, they clustered round her. For the first time since her hasty marriage and social elevation, they had accepted her again. What a way to be accepted.

  Then Mrs Clancy had made the fatal remark about having another and there were several echoing murmurs, and the next she knew, she was boiling with rage. She wanted to lash out and scream and shout until they understood what sheer bloody nonsense they were talking and how appallingly mistaken and cruel and thoughtless they were. But she didn’t. She just stood there. When they went into church, she hung back, then trailed home. She hadn’t been back since.

  Ralph was pleased. He had taken to attending St Clement’s every Sunday, requiring her to accompany him. She didn’t care one way or the other. After the service, they would walk down the road to the old graveyard to visit Joey, and that was all that mattered. Joey’s grave was her only destination these days unless Ralph took her for a walk.

  She hadn’t seen Letty in ages. Letty had cut herself off more effectively than Ralph could ever have achieved, by not attending Joey’s funeral. Carrie couldn’t forgive her. A few women from Wilton Lane had been there, Letty and her mother and their Joanie included, lurking on the other side of the wall, not daring to set foot on Protestant land, but that hadn’t impressed Carrie. This was Joey’s funeral, the last thing they would ever do for him, and if Letty couldn’t be arsed to walk inside and pay her respects to the little boy whose godmother she had wanted to be, then Carrie couldn’t be doing with her any more.

  Letty and Billy were wed now. An invitation had come, but Ralph had refused it. He hadn’t mentioned it until several weeks later. Carrie had known a moment of – sorrow? Regret? A twinge of conscience? But it was gone in a moment, leaving her alone in the bleak landscape of her heart.

  The next auction day rolled round. Carrie listed the prospective bidders, then slipped home for a bite to eat. As usual, she was the first to return. While others filtered in, she examined some furniture. She had always enjoyed the handsome pieces Ralph sold. There was a warm glow to the wood of a cabinet, beside which the brass drawer handles gleamed on a desk that she knew from the list was called a secretaire. What the difference was between a secretaire and a bureau, she had no idea.

  There were more dealers than usual today and competition was fierce. She could see Ralph relishing every moment. The secretaire generated a lot of interest. Finally, three bidders were left, then two, both of them dealers. When one dropped out, she had her pen poised to record the winner’s number and the final price, only to realise a new bidder had joined in, causing a frisson of excitement to run round the room.

  The new bidder was Mr Kemp – but he had bought that bureau just two weeks ago. Why buy another desk? When he outbid the dealer and the hammer fell, it took a quiet but meaningful, ‘When you’re ready,’ from Ralph to prompt her to put pen to paper.

  Towards the end of the auction, as bidding hotted up over a dinner service with twelve place settings, she noticed the doors opening at the other end of the room. Two men wearing overcoats walked in and stood looking round. Mr Larter was by the window and Carrie watched him thread his way towards them. Quiet words were exchanged, then Mr Larter ushered them out, following and closing the doors.

  When the auction ended, Mr Larter returned and had a word with Ralph, who nodded and moved away. Carrie watched as Mr Larter talked to some of the customers. Not wanting him to catch her looking, she turned and saw that Ralph had let in Charlie, Tom and Arthur, who were already moving things out through the rear doors. Normally, that didn’t happen until all the customers had left.

  Maybe she looked startled because Ralph said, ‘We need to get going. It was a bigger sale than usual.’

  She was still awaiting permission to leave when she noticed the two strangers enter the room again. Mr Larter and Ralph joined them and there was a discussion, which ended with all four of them making their way the length of the room to where Charlie and Tom were about to lift a chest and Arthur was wrapping a clock in sacking.

  Ralph said, ‘Only a couple of pieces have been removed. The chaps can easily bring them back.’

  ‘No need,’ one of the strangers, a narrow-faced individual, replied.

  ‘We can go through and look,’ added his companion.

  But Tom and Charlie had already gone, returning moments later manoeuvring a bookcase between them. They couldn’t have been more efficient if they had been expecting the instruction, Carrie thought, impressed.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to start down the other end,’ suggested Mr Larter, leading the strangers away while the other things were brought back.

  ‘Who are they?’ Carrie whispered. The strangers were eyeing up the various pieces, muttering to one another, occasionally shaking their heads.

  ‘No one for you to worry about,’ Ralph answered. ‘Is that everything?’ he asked Tom.

  ‘Yes, guv. Bookcase, china cabinet, desk.’

  Carrie glanced at the items as Tom named them. The cabinet was the one she had been looking at earlier and the desk was the secretaire Mr Kemp had bought, except that—

  ‘You can go home,’ Ralph said.

  ‘Ralph,’ she said, ‘that desk—’

  ‘I said, go home.’

  She fetched her things. She felt a frown tugging at her brow. The desk now standing in the auction room had wooden knobs on the drawers and hadn’t Mr Kemp’s secretaire had brass handles? She was sure it had – well, almost sure. How could one desk have been taken out of the room and then a different one be brought back in? One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to say anything, for fear of making herself look stupid.

  On her way home from visiting Joey, Carrie looked through the shop window. A policeman was inside, talking to Ralph. Wondering if the bobby had information concerning Miss Deacon’s tragic death, she pushed open the shop door. The bell bounced and tinkled.

  ‘Go upstairs, Carrie,’ Ralph ordered.

  Times were when she would have resented being spoken to like that. Now she didn’t care.

  Upstairs, she couldn’t settle to anything, which in itself felt odd, after all her months of resolute activity. She went to brush out Mam’s hair and re-braid it, automatically reaching to pick up the brush from the top of the cupboard, only to glance round
as her questing fingers found nothing but empty space. The brush was on the bedside table. Mrs Porter must have made a start on Mam’s hair, though she didn’t normally do things like that.

  Poor Mam, her hair was thinner than it used to be and calling it salt-and-pepper was being polite. Most of it was iron grey. Carrie brushed it through, lifting her head to get at the back, then deftly plaited it. First Adam and then Doctor Todd had suggested cutting the plait off, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘I have a new magazine,’ she remembered. ‘I’ll fetch it.’

  Passing the window, she stopped. Going into the Lloyds were two uniformed policemen and two men in overcoats and hats, one of whom, yes, was the narrow-faced stranger from the auction. What was going on? She hovered at the window. At last, one of the policemen emerged and crossed the road. Carrie pressed her cheek against the pane in an effort to watch him enter the shop. Presently, he went back over the road, accompanied by Ralph.

  Later, Ralph came upstairs. He looked sombre, and she hoped nothing dreadful had happened concerning his beloved auction room.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ he said. ‘This is important.’

  She took a seat in one of the armchairs in the sitting room. She sat forwards, ready to be sympathetic and attentive, the dutiful wife ready to offer her support.

  ‘It’s Evadne. The police are on their way to Brookburn. Your snooty sister is no better than a common thief.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Evadne was at her desk, tapping away on her typewriter. She had nearly finished and then she would heft the typewriter onto the table beside the wall, where it stood when not in use. She didn’t like picking it up, but she preferred it to be out of the way. Without it, the desk made her look important. Typewriter meant clerk; but a handsome desk with a smart inlay of green morocco leather and a cut-crystal inkstand with compartments for blue and black, and grooves for pencils and pens, marked her out as a person of consequence.