by Annie Murray
He answered indulgently at first and she was just relieved he didn’t laugh at her or become impatient.
‘There are nigh on 1,500 employed in the firm altogether . . .’
‘Is that big?’ Mercy’s eyes were wide. As Mr Adair answered she felt Margaret watching her.
‘Big enough.’ James Adair sat back as Rose and Emmie cleared away the plates and brought in dishes of stewed pears and junket, and pretty ivy-patterned bowls. ‘Not big by BSA standards though. ’Course, they can design and produce a whole range. But our route will be through specialized models – racers, leisure bicycles. Now the War’s over there’s huge demand. And it happens that the most like-minded designer I’ve come across is over the water.’
For the first time Mercy eased herself back in her chair and sat comfortably, more relaxed. She was not without anxiety though, nervous in case her manners should be found wanting. And were they going to tell her whether she could keep her job or not?
As they finished their sweet, James Adair pushed his chair back, crossed one leg comfortably over the other and lit a cigar, his soft worsted jacket unbuttoned. The room was dark round them, the table a pool of light in the middle.
‘So Mercy, are you going to tell us a bit more about yourself?’
Mercy’s heart started to pound. Was this it now? Was he going to find out all about her and then decide she wasn’t suitable to remain in his wife’s company? What in heaven did he want to know? She reddened in confusion, feeling her mouth turn dry.
‘Oh James, not tonight!’ Margaret intervened.
Mercy looked gratefully at her, knowing she was being protected. ‘I’m sure we’ve tired the poor girl quite enough—’
‘Nonsense!’ James laughed. ‘She’s been lively as a cricket – full of questions. Haven’t you, Mercy?’
‘Well I—’
‘Would you like to go to your room now, dear?’ Margaret said.
‘’Er, yes – please.’ Mercy couldn’t meet Mr Adair’s eye. She stood up, gracefully smoothing her skirts.
‘You’ll join us again, won’t you?’ James Adair had stood up and was holding out his hand. Confused, Mercy took it, looking up into his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Goodnight,’ Margaret called to her.
Mercy closed the dining-room door behind her and let out an enormous sigh of relief. Well, they hadn’t said she couldn’t stay yet!
‘Good God,’ James Adair said as Mercy left the room. He spoke in irritation at himself. What did he think he was doing, shaking hands with a servant like that? He sat down, stiffly continuing to smoke his cigar.
‘That was very gallant, dear,’ Margaret teased him. ‘I see you approve after all.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said gruffly, ‘In fact, yes, she’s a great deal better than I’d feared.’
He was left with an unsettled, almost itchy feeling, the image of those large, striking eyes watching him as he’d talked.
‘So what do we know about the girl?’
Margaret thought quickly. She wanted to please James, knew that later, in private, she would have to. But in the matter of Mercy she also wanted his approval. Mercy had told her very few things, and those inadvertently, about her past life.
‘I only know for sure that she was an orphan – abandoned at birth from what she said.’ She watched her husband’s face. ‘Poor little waif. What a thing to do to a child.’
‘Poverty.’ James shook his head, leaning forward to knock ash from his cigar. ‘The desperation of poverty.’ Margaret was surprised and touched by this insight of his.
That night, after they had retired, she didn’t instantly turn away from him as they lay together, though she was quiet, listening, he knew, for sounds from Stevie’s room.
James caressed her belly through the soft organza nightdress. Felt her sigh, very slightly.
‘You, er . . .’ He felt he must ask, embarrassing as it was. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘No,’ she replied dreamily. ‘I don’t mind.’
Carefully he moved her nightdress up, at last allowing himself desire, and uncovered her breasts in the soft light.
Chapter Twenty-Four
That Saturday Mr Adair called Mercy into the parlour. Speaking very formally he said that her presence in the house and her behaviour had been satisfactory and beneficial to everyone, and that she could consider herself now employed for the forseeable future.
However serious she tried to look, Mercy could feel a beaming smile breaking out across her face.
‘Oh thank you!’ she cried when Mr Adair had finished speaking. ‘Thank you so much!’
‘There’s just one thing . . .’ Mr Adair looked rather stern. ‘Audrey Radcliffe tells me you have taken issue with her on a few matters concerning our son. I won’t have that. So far as I’m concerned she’s making a marvellous job of caring for Steven. I believe her to be very sound and I don’t wish to hear any more about you causing her trouble.’
‘But she—’ Mercy looked stricken, but closed her mouth again. This was no time to start arguing. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It won’t happen again.’
When she was alone with Margaret she said, ‘I’m ever so glad. I was afraid you wouldn’t be satisfied with me – especially your husband.’
‘Oh Mercy, not at all,’ Margaret laughed. ‘James can see how much you’ve cheered me up. It’s been such fun since you’ve been here. I do hope you feel happy and settled with us?’
‘Oh yes.’ Mercy was beaming again. ‘I’ve got used to it here with you and Stevie. I don’t think I could stand going back now.’
She had been back to Angel Street though, on her two afternoons off. The first time it was hard. It had only been two weeks after all. In one way she felt as if she’d never left, yet in another, that she’d been away months, years even.
She went straight to Elsie.
‘Eh, bab, you’re back!’ Elsie’s face glowed at the sight of her. She was already putting the kettle on.
Mercy went and sat by Tom.
‘’Ello love.’ He was propped upright, awake, but she didn’t kiss him. He made a sound, and a sudden movement with his head.
‘See – ’e’s glad to see you.’
Mercy sighed softly. ‘So how’ve you been?’
‘Oh – you know.’ Elsie spoke with her back to her, spooning tea from her battered tin with the green lid.
‘And Alf?’
‘Oh, ’e’s not so bad. ’E saw Johnny last week, in town. Said the lad were awright. ’E said ’e’d come over and visit but ’e ’ain’t turned up yet.’
She turned round to lay out the cups on the bare, scrubbed table, and Mercy was shocked by the grim, unguarded expression on her face. Was she imagining that Elsie looked a lot worse or was it just that she was now used to Margaret Adair’s robust appearance?
‘Elsie, are you awright? You don’t look well to me.’
Elsie tried to smile but succeeded in something more like a wince. ‘Oh, I’ll do. Now – ’ she spooned condensed milk into the cups – ‘’ow’re they treating you?’
Mercy chattered on to her as they drank their sweet tea, telling her about her first fortnight, how Dorothy had popped in to see her, about Stevie, and Nanny Radcliffe – Elsie tutted as Mercy described her – and about the Adairs. She told her about the house and all the beautiful things in it, Mr Adair’s glass collection and the soft chairs and the pretty painted firescreen in the parlour.
‘And they’ve got a great big grandfather clock which ticks ever so loud, and antimacassars on all the parlour chairs . . .’
Elsie was smiling and listening, glad for her, Mercy could see, but a couple of times she saw her close her eyes tight for a moment.
‘What’s up?’ Mercy felt her stomach churn in fright. ‘You got a pain, Elsie?’
‘What? Oh, no, love. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’ She jerked her head at Tom. ‘’E were a bit restless in the night so I was up and down.’
&nb
sp; Mercy ached for her. She felt as if the walls were closing in round them. Back here. This endless, futile struggle.
‘How’s she?’ She nodded her head towards Mabel’s.
‘Oh – doing odd bits of work. Mary’s ’elping ’er out.’
‘Ah – I bet she is.’
‘You been in to see ’er?’
‘No.’
Elsie gave a long sigh. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame yer.’
Mercy stayed late enough to see the others come in. Alf greeted her like a long lost daughter which made her happy, and she sat chatting to Jack and Rosalie for a bit.
‘Don’t forget us, will yer?’ Elsie joked as she left.
‘I’ll see you in a fortnight.’ She turned to wave, going to the entry. As she did so she caught sight of Mabel peering out from the window of number two and turned away. Mabel didn’t come out.
Stevie was crying. The sound of it wormed its way into Mercy’s sleep until she opened her eyes in the dark. He didn’t wake every night now, but on occasion there came a roar from the nursery and then his anguished howling, as if he’d wakened from a terrible dream.
After a time, if it didn’t stop, Mercy would hear Audrey Radcliffe’s bedroom door squeak open and her abrupt tread going down the stairs.
But that night, though Stevie carried on crying for many minutes, there came no sound from the room opposite. Mercy turned on her back, wide awake now. The baby’s cries were pained, or frightened. Those helpless shrieks into the darkness touched something in her, setting her nerves on edge. She felt almost like crying herself. She couldn’t lie in bed listening to him.
Moving silently across the floorboards in her bedsocks, she pulled on a cardigan and lit the candle and went down to him. Audrey Radcliffe’s door was still shut.
Stevie quieted for a second when she entered the nursery, the light from her candle thinning out the dark. Mercy had to look round to see where the cot was, for Radcliffe kept the room so much as her personal fortress that Mercy had barely even glimpsed inside until now. Then Stevie let out another high whimper.
‘It’s awright, little’un.’ She put the candle on the table by the wall and went to pick him up.
‘There – Mercy’s ’ere to see you. No need for all that racket now, is there?’
As she held him, Stevie cuddled in close to her, one hand grasping the sleeve of her cardigan, tangling in her long hair, the other tucked up close to his face, thumb in mouth. He was still gulping and sniffing, but Mercy felt that he was calmer, reassured.
For a few moments she walked round the room holding him, then sat on the rush-seated chair and rocked him, humming, starting to pat his back. Suddenly he stiffened in her arms and let out another great howl.
‘Now . . . now . . . there,’ she was saying, then looked up startled as the light from another candle appeared at the door.
‘Oh Mercy – thank goodness it’s you.’ Margaret Adair was clad in a long, pale gown. ‘What’re you doing down here? Do you often come to him at night? I thought it was . . .?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Mercy whispered back. ‘Only she didn’t seem to hear him.’
‘I’ve not heard him cry like that in a long time.’ Margaret looked worried.
‘He was awright – I don’t know what set him off again.’
‘May I?’ Margaret held her arms out. Mercy handed the warm, distraught child to her.
‘I’ve wanted to get up to him so often and had to restrain myself,’ Margaret said softly. ‘I should have just followed my instincts.’
Mercy watched the look of tenderness on Margaret’s face as she cradled her son. It suddenly made her feel very sad. This was what a mother was supposed to be, wasn’t it? She was supposed to love and cherish her baby and hold it close. The reality of her own mother went through her like a chill. She had left her almost as soon as she was born, dumped her like a parcel on a doorstep. What sort of mother was that?
‘She says I’ll spoil him,’ Margaret was murmuring. ‘How could I spoil him? It seems so unkind.’
‘What does she know anyway?’ Mercy hissed, with a viciousness in her voice that made Margaret look at her, startled. ‘Has she ever had a babby?’
‘’Er – well, I assume not!’ Margaret reached out and touched Mercy’s shoulder, felt her trembling, whether from cold or emotion, she couldn’t tell. ‘Poor dear Mercy. You’re so sweet with him. With all of us.’
Another light appeared in the doorway.
‘What’s all this then?’
Radcliffe’s tone was frigid. She was wrapped in a heavy wool gown, her hair hanging in a plait down her back. The candle she was holding hollowed out her already gaunt face with shadows. The sight of her set Mercy’s heart pounding.
‘It’s all right,’ Margaret said hastily, bending to replace her son in his cot. ‘He’s going off by himself now.’ But as she lay him down, Stevie started to cry again.
‘But why do I come down and find people meddling with him?’
Mercy, rage swelling in her, took a step forward. She must control herself, or Mr Adair would send her away, but . . .
‘You didn’t seem to’ve heard him. So I came down. What’s the harm in that?’
Nanny Radcliffe stared back in disdain at the angelic picture Mercy made standing before her, her pale hair tumbling over her shoulders. The expression on Mercy’s face was anything but angelic though. Her chin was jutting forward and her eyes narrowed, arms folded tight.
‘It’s not your place to interfere.’ Radcliffe spoke with exaggerated patience as if they were all terminally foolish, she the only one with any insight into Stevie’s requirements. ‘Children should not be pandered to. There’s nothing he needs for his welfare in the middle of the night. He has to learn not to go attracting attention unnecessarily and inconveniencing other people. You don’t want him to grow up into a weak, demanding character, do you?’
‘’Er, no, I suppose not—’ Margaret began doubtfully, when a louder voice said, ‘Hear! hear!’
James Adair came into the room, a silky, red dressing gown over his night clothes.
‘Margaret – get back to bed,’ he ordered, tight-lipped. Margaret scuttled from the room.
‘Radcliffe – see to the child,’ he said curtly. ‘I apologize for this interference. It won’t happen again.’
He came and stood before Mercy. With the light of the candle behind her, her face was in shadow so he could not see the defiance written on it.
‘I’ve warned you. You do not interfere with Radcliffe’s responsibilities. I don’t know why a slip of a girl your age thinks she can come into my house and start transgressing all the established rules. The presumptuousness of it quite astounds me! Now – it’d better not happen again . . .’
Between her teeth, Mercy said, ‘Why shouldn’t he have what he needs? Making people suffer doesn’t make them stronger and better it makes them cruel and nasty.’
James Adair stared at her, stunned, scarcely able to take in that she’d challenged him like that.
‘Just leave it to someone who knows,’ he demanded. Irritably he turned to the nanny. ‘Can’t you get that child to stop squawking like that?’
A couple of mornings later, when Stevie was downstairs with Mercy and Margaret for the short period he was allowed with them, he seemed fretful, and even all their smiles and jigglings on knees couldn’t seem to cheer him. He cried when they picked him up and he cried when they put him down.
‘Perhaps he’s feverish?’ Margaret said, worried. ‘He does feel rather hot, don’t you think? She’s got him rather well wrapped considering the worst of the winter’s over. ‘Let’s take this off.’
She peeled Stevie’s white matinée coat off, but this didn’t seem to make him any happier. He grizzled even harder and seemed thoroughly out of sorts.
‘He really seems rather unwell,’ Margaret told Audrey Radcliffe when she came to take him upstairs again.
‘Oh dear,’ the nanny said in the sugary voice she some
times put on to talk to Stevie. Mercy stared at her. You’re a nasty cow, her eyes said, however much you act all sweet.
‘Let’s go and sort you out.’ Audrey Radcliffe went to where Stevie was sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden building blocks. Ignoring his protests, she bent over and briskly removed him. Stevie’s face screwed up and he began crying again.
‘Oh heavens.’ Margaret had tears in her eyes. ‘What’s the matter with him? He doesn’t seem well at all. I’ve never heard him make a noise like that before.’ She saw the taut look of fury on Mercy’s face, her fists clenched, arms straight by her side. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s summat not right about her,’ Mercy burst out. She had to say it. Her instinct that there was something horribly wrong about that nanny was growing on her by the week. ‘She’s doing summat to him. I know she is. She’s a cruel, scheming bitch.’
‘Mercy! I’ve never heard you talk that way before.’
Mercy’s eyes were burning with emotion. ‘She made me promise not to tell you . . .’
‘What on earth?’
‘Back when it was cold, really cold, she left him out there—’ – Mercy pointed at the daffodil filled garden – ‘with almost nothing on. No covers, nothing. He was going blue when I went out there to get him. And that mark on his head. He never hit it on the table – she did it. I know she did . . .’
Margaret Adair’s hand went up to her mouth in shock.
‘Let me go up, now . . .’ Mercy marched to the door. She was desperate not to lose this job, but if it was a choice between Stevie suffering and her keeping quiet, what sort of choice was that?
‘But—’ Margaret said.
Mercy was already on the stairs. She went speedily to the nursery door and opened it without knocking.
Audrey Radcliffe was standing by the table with Stevie in her arms. She seemed just on the point of changing his nappy, and while fretful, he was no longer screaming. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ Audrey Radcliffe spoke in a very flat, quiet voice.
