Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  ‘Lift me?’ Margaret laughed wholeheartedly. ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief! No, dear – I’m not up to that, I’m afraid. What about Mercy?’

  ‘Splendid – come on, Mercy. Give it a try!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Oh, go on, put him out of his misery. Here, give Stevie to me and I’ll take him in. It’s getting cool out here.’

  Mercy wished Margaret would stay, but she’d already disappeared into the house. Her stomach started fluttering with nerves. She’d never ridden a large bicycle before, and she was shy, alone with Mr Adair.

  ‘I don’t know how,’ she said timidly, moving closer to him.

  ‘I’ll soon show you – easy as winking. Just keep your feet on the pedals and push. This is rather high for you, of course. I shan’t let go. Look, I’ll lean it against the wall to start with.’

  Mercy felt James Adair’s large hands grasp her round the waist from behind, and lift her high on to the saddle.

  ‘Light as a feather!’

  Mercy felt very high up and not especially safe. To her mortification the bar of the cycle was forcing up her skirt, making it ride high in her legs and showing her white bloomers. Thank goodness she had quite new ones on!

  ‘Now, hold still. You put your hands on these.’ He directed her to the grips on the handlebars, but it was a long way for her to lean. She felt his arm encircle her waist, his warmth through her thin frock.

  As he moved the cycle forwards, Mercy’s heart was beating faster and faster. She was wobbling, she was going to fall! The bicycle lurched to one side and his arm tightened round her.

  ‘Steady!’ he laughed. ‘That’s it – now we can have a proper go.

  ‘Out here?’ Mercy protested. She’d expected a quick turn in the garden and he was heading out along the pavement!

  ‘There’s hardly anyone about. Don’t worry, we shan’t knock anyone over.’

  Mercy didn’t feel she could say she was more worried about whether anyone could see her bloomers! She thanked heaven it was nearly dusk.

  The saddle felt hard and uncomfortable between her legs, and the pedals, at their lowest point, were too far down for her to reach. She found she kept losing them on the way round. She was suspended, rather painfully, eyes fixed on James Adair’s white sleeve, the hairs on the backs of his strong hand as he guided the handlebars for her. Yet the feel of the air rushing past her face, blowing her hair back, was invigorating. Once James Adair broke into a trot, leading her along the quiet road away from Moseley Village, the sadness of the afternoon was blown away and she let out her full-hearted, gurgling laugh.

  ‘Nothing like it, is there?’ As he spoke, Mercy felt how close he was, his breath on her ear, the foreign, manly smell of him, his arm close round her. She had hardly ever been so close to any man apart from Tom, and was uneasy and embarrassed, but she could do nothing but cling on as he held and steered her.

  ‘Phew!’ He slowed down after a time, panting. ‘I’m not up to all this – have to turn round – walk a bit.’

  ‘I’ve – had . . .’ Mercy wanted to say, ‘quite enough’ but she continued, ‘. . . a good go on it – thanks.’

  She turned her head a little to speak to him and he looked round at her, into her eyes. He was so close, smiling at her and she could see perspiration on his forehead. She turned to face the front again with a sudden sense of unease. She liked James Adair and enjoyed being treated almost like his little sister as well as Margaret’s. But this closeness, him holding her like that, didn’t feel quite right.

  ‘There now.’ As they turned in through the gate the cycle gave another big wobble and Mercy shrieked, grasping James’s arm with one hand.

  ‘It’s all right.’ His voice was soothing, almost caressing. ‘I’ve got you, Mercy.’

  Carefully he propped the bicycle back against the wall and lifted her once more into his arms with a lingering lack of haste. He held her high for a moment, almost as he did with Stevie, and Mercy laughed, exhilarated.

  James looked up into her face, smiling broadly, eyes crinkling at the corners, then lowered her to the ground.

  ‘Little scrap of a thing, aren’t you? So – what d’you think?’

  He laid his hands on her shoulders and she could feel their damp heat. She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

  ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘She is, isn’t she? A little beauty. I’m glad someone was game to give her a try.’

  He released her with sudden abruptness and turned to the machine.

  ‘I’d better go in,’ she said, relieved. ‘Thank you again.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  How had this come about? James Adair mused to himself as he walked behind Margaret and Mercy, who was pushing Stevie in his pram, down the hill to the park.

  ‘Mercy’s never been boating,’ Margaret had implored him. ‘And it’s such a beautiful day.’

  It was indeed, a burnished August day. Holiday season: an atmosphere of Sunday afternoon languor pervaded. They had attended church at St Mary’s in Moseley, eaten a good lunch of tender lamb and mint sauce, and now James felt a great sensation of wellbeing surge through him.

  After all, what could be the harm? He was going out in public with his wife and his son’s nanny. He would not be alone with Mercy: he could enjoy the afternoon in a pure attitude of companionship with a clear conscience. He knew, as he had known for some time, had had confirmed that evening when he held her in his arms during her cycle ride, that he must not be alone with her. She was a temptation, a thorn in his conscience, a tune which played insistently through his head. The memory of touching her made him ache with desire. This went against all the rules of the code by which he lived. He wanted to believe that he was upright, scrupulous, faithful. Since then he had gone out of his way to minimize his contact with her.

  He watched the figures of the two women – my women, he found himself thinking – swaying gently in front of him. Margaret was in a fussy dress of sky-blue and white candy stripes, looked plump and overdressed. She had on a wide-brimmed, white hat with a cascade of blue flowers tumbling from it. James found himself wincing at the acid colour of them. She was still a country girl by instinct. In contrast, Mercy was all slim simplicity in her white dress with the sailor-suit collar, white button shoes and a simple straw hat. Her hair was gathered up loosely in a plait which swung between her shoulder blades.

  By heaven she was lovely! He found his eyes hungrily following her every movement, the twitch of her plait as she turned her head to talk to Margaret, the lean curve of her as she leant over Stevie, the light, eager walk. He imagined peeling off the dress, slowly, over her head, unveiling her, the wondrous, magical shape of her . . .

  For heaven’s sake, he railed at himself, pull yourself together, man! What sort of thoughts were these for a married man to be indulging in?

  But fantasies of her had gradually begun to bombard him: at home, at the works, even when she was nowhere near, until he was thinking of her a great many times a day.

  He stopped for a moment to remove his blazer and fell a few paces behind, freeing his arms, flinging it boyishly over his shoulder by the collar.

  These feelings had crept up on him so gradually he had barely known it was happening. Mercy’s wide, serious eyes turning on him when he spoke, her interest in him, her untutored intelligence. The way, Margaret had told him, she’d confronted that Radcliffe woman. Margaret would never have had the guts to do that! And further still, he had learnt from his wife of the girl’s tragic past, of her maimed lover. The thought of her sadness and devotion moved him unutterably.

  Margaret and Mercy stopped at the gates of the park and turned, both still laughing at something.

  ‘Come on, James!’ Margaret called. ‘You’re dawdling!’

  ‘Coming!’ He beamed at them both: at Margaret’s new serenity, at his son’s happy, tanned face, at Mercy, fresh and sweet as a spring flower. What a blessed life he had!

  As they neared the
lake they could hear excited voices, shrieks of laughter, the plash of oars and their creak in the rowlocks and occasional indignant quacking of a duck hurriedly taking flight. The small expanse of water was crowded with rowing boats and paddle boats, their passengers clad in bright summer clothes.

  James paid for the hire of a rowing boat. ‘We’ll have to wait our turn. They’re all taken at the moment.’

  They stood contentedly in the shade. Margaret poured lemonade for them to sip. They helped Stevie to throw some crusts to the ducks and watched the other pleasure-seekers until a boat was ready for them.

  ‘I think I’ll feel safest if I hold Stevie,’ Margaret said, lifting him from the pram. She handed him to Mercy. ‘I’ll get in and you can pass him to me – and then you can relax for a bit.’

  James helped his wife climb in in a rather ungainly fashion, waiting until she’d sat down in the stern and readjusted her hat.

  Mercy carefully handed Stevie to her and Margaret settled him on her lap.

  ‘Take my hand,’ James said.

  Mercy gave her uncertain smile. ‘I’ve never been in one of these before.’

  ‘It’s quite safe – Here—’ Gallantly he took her little hand, melting inwardly at her inexperience. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  She settled on her seat in the bow while James moved to the rowing seat, sitting with his back to her.

  ‘Off we go!’ The oars were ready and they pulled away, in and out of the shade of trees, James leaning forward and back, forward and back with an easy, rhythmic stroke.

  ‘All right?’ He turned his head, conscious that his back was sweating from his exertions.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Mercy said dreamily. The sunshine seemed to make her glow.

  James tried to concentrate on watching Stevie who, wide-eyed, was letting out shrieks of excitement and struggling to get down from Margaret’s lap and throw himself over the side.

  ‘Dear, oh dear!’ Margaret laughed. ‘I’d never have believed a small child could be so strong – my arms are aching!’

  After a time James stopped and turned round. Mercy was sitting sideways, the brim of her hat pulled low to shield her eyes from the bright, sunlit ripples.

  ‘Have a try?’ James invited softly.

  ‘What? Rowing the boat!’

  ‘Of course, why not? Come on.’ He spoke more briskly than he meant to and cursed himself inwardly for sounding like a sergeant major.

  She came to him, hand over hand, instinctively adjusting her weight with the tilt of the boat until she reached him.

  ‘You sit here.’ He patted the space beside him. ‘We’ll try one each to begin with.’

  He gave her the right hand oar and showed her how to manoeuvre it, up, back, down, then spooning the water away. His right leg and her left touched, side by side. Mercy frowned with concentration, and James kept watching her, smiling. He longed to lean round and kiss the furrowed brow, to smooth it with his fingers. He found his mind shaping extravagant words of adoration to her.

  All he said was, ‘That’s good. You must come from a seafaring family.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Mercy smiled without irony. ‘I s’pose I could’ve done.’

  ‘Oh – yes, of course.’ He was uncomfortable at having highlighted her uncertain origins. ‘Anyway – how about trying both now?’

  He stepped behind the seat and gently urged her to move to the middle, kneeling behind her.

  ‘Now – take both and do the same.’

  She dipped the oars in and pulled with her wiry arms. The boat made a promising surge of progress.

  ‘Good!’ he cried. Then she forgot to lift the oars and pulled so the blades stumbled in the water, ruffling it up, slowing them right down. The left oar flung out of her hand and James lurched over to catch it for her.

  ‘Never mind. Here, let me help, just ’til you’ve got it.’

  Reaching round her he laid his hands over hers and as he did so, breathed in her smell, a mixture of soap and warm flesh and hair, a warm animal smell which caught him by surprise.

  ‘That’s better.’

  She half-turned her head, animated. ‘I think I can do it now.’ He released her, desire raw in him.

  ‘Perhaps she’ll row all afternoon!’ he joked, turning to Margaret, afraid that his feelings were plain in his face. But she was taken up with Stevie’s antics.

  ‘Here – please, darling.’ She handed him over. ‘He’s exhausting!’

  James busied himself with his son, gladly sitting him in his lap in order to conceal the gross outward sign of his desire, distracting both Stevie and himself, talking to him, showing him the ducks, letting him wet his hands.

  All the time though, he was conscious of Mercy’s every move, her legs stretched out in front of her so that sometimes his ankle brushed against her as he moved, her lithe frame bending back and forth, her dazzling smile of happiness as he caught her eye.

  Oh God, James thought. God help me. He would have to put a stop to it. He couldn’t live like this, with this constant longing gnawing at him. He didn’t know how long he could control himself in her presence. He couldn’t get rid of her – however could that be explained to Margaret? He must struggle for self-control – bury himself in his work. What sort of man was he otherwise?

  ‘Do take over again,’ Margaret urged him eventually, as he sat staring ahead. ‘Mercy must be quite exhausted by now!’

  That night James Adair made love to his wife with an energy and urgency that startled both of them. He was more passionately aroused than she could ever remember, and at the height of it he cried out loudly as if the release of it was painful to him. Afterwards, still startled, she held him, caressing him as he lay in her arms, his eyes tightly closed.

  ‘I had a wire from Kesler today,’ James announced a few weeks later, as the three of them sat round at dinner one evening. Margaret insisted that Mercy ate with them still at least once a week and couldn’t understand why her husband was being so awkward about it recently, trying to insist that as Mercy was an employee she should be treated as such and kept in her place.

  It was a mellow evening in early autumn, the light dying over the now tarnished leaves in the front garden

  ‘D’you mean the American?’ Mercy asked, passing Mr Adair a well-filled gravy boat.

  Margaret looked at Mercy in some gratitude that at least she had remembered who her husband was talking about as her own mind had a tendency to flit on to something else as soon as he began to talk about work. James also smiled appreciatively at her.

  ‘That’s the one.’ He nodded to Emmie to indicate they had everything they needed. She left the room with her usual smirk at Mercy. She and Rose were always cross-questioning Mercy – ‘What did they say? What do they talk about?’ – but were habitually disappointed by the information.

  ‘Didn’t they talk about anything else?’ was usually Rose’s complaint when Mercy reported conversations about the health of the cycle market or Stevie’s daily doings. ‘Don’t they ever ’ave a good fight?’

  But the Adairs didn’t. Most of what passed between them was a low current, under the surface. To Mercy they seemed calm, which she took to mean contented. Tonight, by their standards, James was animated.

  He accepted the gravy, then picked up the delicate glass beside Margaret’s plate to pour water into it, then Mercy’s. Mercy was still nervous of drinking from the long-stemmed glassware, but James disdained drinking out of anything of lesser quality, even though he was abstemious and seldom drank alcohol.

  ‘Kesler’s planning a new works outside New York – in Rochester. They should be moving out early next year, and he suggests—’ – James sat back, holding his glass with an air of triumph – ‘that when things have progressed a bit further, I visit him in New York!’

  Margaret, who had been eating with a hungry sense of purpose, looked up startled.

  ‘You – go to America!’

  James laughed youthfully. His moustache shifted w
hen he smiled, making the smile appear broader. ‘And why not? It’s not the moon, you know. It’s only a few days’ voyage, and I gather Cunard will be taking passenger bookings again before too long. I think it’s a splendid idea. Kesler and I will have a hugely productive relationship, I’m certain of it. He has all that New World drive and enthusiasm, and with all our technical know-how put together . . . Ideally I’d go sooner, of course, but if we’re to travel on the best ship in the world, we shall have to wait until she’s ready for us.’

  Margaret was frowning at him.

  ‘The Mauretania, of course – she’s undergoing a complete overhaul. They had to convert her for War service—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Margaret said. ‘But you said “we”?’

  ‘Of course you must come with me! You’re forever saying you never go anywhere or do anything.’

  ‘But James – Stevie.’

  ‘Oh, Stevie will be perfectly all right with Mercy here. My mother can come and stay for a few weeks. She’d love it – we’ll be gone a month at most. What harm could come to him?’

  ‘James,’ Margaret spoke with unusual resolve, ‘I am not going to travel to the other side of the world and leave my son. Least of all with your mother. He barely knows her and she’s as cold as a dead herring. I’m just not. I’m sorry. You’ll have to go alone. After all, it is business.’ She popped a piece of potato in her mouth as if to emphasize that she wasn’t going to say anything else.

  Mercy listened expectantly. Was she now going to have something approaching a row to report to Rose? After all, she did just call his mother a dead herring . . .

  ‘But, darling—’ – James was stroking his moustache with his left hand as he tended to do when irritated – ‘Kesler has a very nice wife – and children. And he’s requested that you come.’ (The final phrase of Kesler’s telegram had read ‘Bring wife.’)

  Margaret looked defiantly at him, swallowing the potato. ‘How on earth do you know she’s nice? Whatever this American has requested, I am not leaving my son. He’s had quite enough to contend with in his short life already. And that’s that.’