The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  Olive squared her bony shoulders and brought her sharp chin up. With Lillian bombed out and Carrie having told her she wasn’t welcome under David’s roof, Margaret couldn’t refuse her a bed. And if Walter and Renee were mentioned, she would make it quite clear she wouldn’t dream of soiling her conscience by living under that baggage’s roof. Those McDarmounts, she had known there would be nothing but trouble when her lads took up with them.

  The dining room door opened. Margaret froze when she saw her mother-in-law in the hall, and the chaffing she had been about to voice to Mrs Browell at the delay in dinner being served died on her lips. For a moment she couldn’t believe her eyes, and then Olive marched up to her and said briskly, ‘And how are you this evening, Margaret?’

  ‘Fairly well, thank you, Mother-in-law’, she managed to respond. ‘But . . .’ She hesitated. ‘What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t nice to see you of course, but I had no idea you were coming. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Mrs Browell is serving dinner for two.’ Olive managed to make it sound as though it was the housekeeper’s suggestion.

  ‘Oh, I see. How . . . nice. But with the weather so inclement . . .’ Margaret’s voice drifted away.

  Olive said evenly, ‘Mrs Browell has taken my bag to one of the spare rooms, Margaret. I may as well tell you that Carrie has made it abundantly clear I am not welcome with them any more, and as you know, Lillian is staying with them for the present. With Renee being Carrie’s sister I obviously can’t go there.’

  ‘You . . . you mean . . .’ Margaret took a deep breath, her sallow, thin face flushed with nervous colour. ‘You want to stay here?’

  ‘I understand the maid and nurse have both left to do war work.’ Olive seated herself at one end of the large dining table which was set for one with silver cutlery, fine glassware and a damask linen cloth of exquisite design. ‘Poor Mrs Browell is having to run this house and look after you single-handed.’ Again she made it sound as if it was the housekeeper who had suggested she stay. ‘It seems a good time for me to help out, don’t you think?’

  Margaret felt the trembling inside communicate itself to her hands and she tucked them in her lap. ‘But, Alec . . . I mean, it would be up to him.’

  ‘Alec is not here, Margaret.’ Olive spoke in a tone that suggested she thought Margaret was dense or confused. ‘But I am sure he would want his mother to look after his wife in such difficult circumstances. We’re family, aren’t we? And at times like this, family should look out for one another. Who knows what tomorrow could bring, what with the raids and all? I’m sure his mind would be put at ease if he knew I was here.’

  Margaret wondered what her mother-in-law would say if she knew her son had stated he would rather cut his own throat than have his mother live with them. But Alec wasn’t here, and she couldn’t stand up to this dreadful woman by herself.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Olive gave a twist to her lips which could have passed for a smile. ‘I’m more than happy to stay for a while so don’t you worry your head about it a minute longer.’

  Margaret was saved having to make a response to this by Mrs Browell, who entered the room without any ceremony and laid another place at the table in front of Olive. Then she left the room again. The door had barely closed behind her when Olive said, ‘That woman takes liberties, Margaret. You really ought to be firm with her.’

  ‘Mrs Browell?’ Margaret was stung into rare retaliation. ‘She’s a friend, not just a housekeeper.’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s the root of the problem, if you don’t mind me saying so. If you let servants think they’re in with the door shut, it breeds over-familiarity.’ Olive spoke as though she was used to dealing with a whole household of servants.

  A familiar wave of weakness came over Margaret; it always assailed her in Olive’s presence, and she knew she wasn’t strong enough to tell Alec’s mother to leave. She glanced down at the white damask tablecloth helplessly. What was she going to do?

  It was now three days since Olive had come to stay and Margaret thought she was beginning to go mad. Of course there were those who said she was mad already, what with the injections for her nerves and the treatment she had undergone at private clinics in the last few years. But she had known she wasn’t all mad, even in the worst of her depressions. But now . . .

  She glanced across at her mother-in-law who was seated on the other side of the roaring fire in an armchair identical to the one she herself was sitting in. Olive was doing her best to alienate Mrs Browell, and if the housekeeper left, Margaret knew she wouldn’t be able to go on. If only her father wasn’t in bed with this wretched influenza, she could have asked him to call and take care of things. There wasn’t a man or woman alive who could intimidate him. He would soon tell Olive Sutton she was taking too much on herself.

  As though her mother-in-law had picked up her thoughts, Olive now said, ‘You should have listened to me this afternoon when that little madam called, Margaret, and refused to allow her over the doorstep. Daring to come here bold as brass when she threw me out of her house. And why would any of them think I’d want to go and stay with Walter and Renee?’

  ‘I thought it was kind of Carrie to come here and tell you what had been proposed.’

  ‘Kind?’ Olive sat up straight, her back tight against the chair. ‘I can see she’s took you in, girl. If Walter and Renee are so keen to have me with them, why didn’t they come themselves and suggest it? Eh?’

  ‘Carrie said Walter is working extra shifts and Renee is ill in bed with the influenza.’

  ‘So she expects me to go there and keep house while that big fat lazy sister of hers lies on her back all day? I wasn’t born yesterday, whatever Carrie McDarmount might think. I’ve got her measure all right.’

  ‘I’ve always found Carrie to be most pleasant,’ said Margaret stiffly.

  ‘Oh aye, she can be pleasant, especially with the men, if you get my drift.’ Olive raised thin eyebrows meaningfully. ‘But she caught her toe when she found out she was expecting Matthew. But with David in the wings offering to marry her she knew she was all right. It’s not many men that’d take on a flyblow but perhaps he thinks the boy is his, although I doubt it. Matthew and David have never got on, but then you know that.’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t.’ Margaret was highly embarrassed and it showed.

  ‘No? You surprise me. I thought it was obvious to everyone. The boy has nothing in common with him, that’s the thing. Nothing at all.’ Olive paused a moment but when Margaret said nothing she continued, ‘But like I said, if Matthew isn’t David’s, it’s not surprising they don’t see eye to eye on anything.’

  Margaret’s brow wrinkled. She was aware Olive was putting a wealth of meaning into her voice but she really didn’t see where this distasteful conversation was leading. She cleared her throat. ‘This is really none of my business,’ she said feebly.

  ‘Of course it is, you’re Alec’s wife, aren’t you?’ And then Olive shut her mouth with a little snap, only to open it again to say, ‘Oh dear, I’ve said too much. It was that glass of wine at dinner. I’m not used to alcohol. But I’ve always maintained that blood outs in the end.’

  Margaret had a puzzled little frown between her eyes.

  For crying out loud, thought Olive, do I have to spell it out for her? Plain as a pikestaff and as thick as two short planks. Alec certainly didn’t marry her for her looks or her brain.

  Olive relaxed back in her chair. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this little talk though, it’s cleared the air, so to speak. I can’t be doing with secrets, not in a family, leastways, and I suppose you’ve always wondered, knowing how Carrie worshipped the ground Alec walked on at one time.’

  What on earth was the woman talking about? Margaret smoothed a fold in the skirt of her dress in order to break the hold of her mother-in-law’s intense gaze. Carrie had no time for Alec, she behaved quite differently with him--

  The penny dropped and her hand became still, her eyes frozen on the mat
erial beneath her fingers. Olive was saying that Alec and Carrie had . . . No.

  For a moment she thought she had spoken out loud but when Olive remained silent, she knew the shout had been in her head. Her mind raced. You’ve always known he didn’t love you, always, and here’s the answer. And look how he is with Matthew. He’s not the same with Veronica, he’s not. All the time you’ve told yourself it’s because Matthew is a boy and he can relate better to him, but it’s not that. You’ve seen him looking at Carrie in that certain way. All right, he looks at lots of women and women look at him, but Carrie never does. Never. She avoids him. She dislikes him. And why? Because he got her pregnant. It must have been about the time Alec proposed marriage. Oh no, no, I can’t bear this. I can’t bear it. And she’s so beautiful, so bonny.

  Margaret raised her head and met Olive’s eyes, and what she read in them provided confirmation. For both women.

  Oh aye, the lass knew all right, it was written all over her face, Olive thought with some satisfaction. Perhaps she’d always suspected something wasn’t right but hadn’t tumbled. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, in the normal run of things and her thinking the lad was David’s son, but this should put a spoke in Carrie McDarmount’s wheel. Thinking she could come here and pretend to be concerned about Margaret. Her card was marked now. If she knew one thing about Margaret it was that she was besotted with her husband; Carrie would find the door closed against her if she took it into her head to try and cause more trouble. Suggesting she should be packed off to Walter’s like a sack of taties! Olive sniffed loudly. Carrie must think she was daft.

  ‘Well, I’m for bed, lass.’ It was the kindest tone Olive had ever used towards her daughter-in-law, but Margaret was unaware of it. Her mind was still grappling with the enormity of tonight’s revelations.

  ‘What? Oh, yes . . . Goodnight.’

  It was vague, but Olive did not take offence. Margaret had plenty to think about now, and no doubt many things which had occurred over the years would take on a new meaning - as they had done with her when she had first realised the significance of it all. It was amazing but sometimes you completely missed what was right under your nose.

  It was snowing again when Margaret stepped out of the house two hours later. Olive and Freda Browell had long since retired and Margaret had been in her quarters for over an hour, but she had spent the time sitting on her bed staring vacantly into space. Now she stood in the snow like someone dazed, looking first one way and then the other as though she did not recognise where she was. In spite of the severe weather she was wearing no hat and coat, and her shoes were more suited to the drawing room than the conditions outside.

  When she began to walk down the drive she moved slowly, her lips working as though she was talking although no sound left her mouth. In the white empty street she turned to face Seaham, and then her steps became more purposeful. In the months following her engagement to Alec and before their marriage, they had often borrowed her father’s horse and trap and taken a picnic to Seaham. It had been a nice drive and they had rarely met anyone they knew, unlike the times they had stayed in town or ventured on the beach at Seaburn, Roker or Whitburn, and since her marriage Margaret had often looked back on those times as the happiest in her life.

  By keeping to the coast road Margaret was able to avoid meeting anyone in the blackout, flitting through the whirling snow with a speed which would have amazed her doctors. When she reached the first stretch of beach, however, she received a shock. The sands were protected by barbed wire and anti-aircraft guns; naval guns and barrage balloons were in the harbour. She was just approaching the harbour when someone called to her, and a member of the Home Guard and two women in khaki uniforms appeared out of a building to her left.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, love?’

  It was the man who spoke and his voice was kind, but Margaret couldn’t answer him except to say, ‘It’s all so different, nothing is the same.’

  One of the women came closer to her. ‘You’re frozen, lass. Where’s your hat and coat?’ she said, just as kindly.

  Then the sirens began to sound.

  ‘Here, you come with us.’ The man caught hold of her arm but Margaret surprised him and herself with the speed and force with which she shook herself free.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I have to find him.’

  ‘Find him? Find who, love?’

  ‘My husband. He’s here. I need to talk to him.’

  She saw the three glance at each other, and then another man, an elderly one this time, in Home Guard uniform joined them. ‘What’s up?’

  The first woman said, ‘She’s looking for her husband,’ but the other one made a gesture with her fingers against the side of her head.

  They thought she was mentally disordered. Margaret stared at them. All she wanted to do was find Alec and ask him . . . What was it she needed to ask him? She couldn’t remember now but it was important. She knew it was important. ‘It’s important.’ She spoke to the older man. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘Course it is.’ He smiled at her, his soldier’s cap already coated with a layer of snow. ‘So why don’t you come and tell me all about it in this nice shelter we’ve got, and then perhaps we can go and find your husband once this little lot is over. How’s that? He might even be in the shelter for all we know.’

  ‘Might he?’ Margaret smiled. She hoped so.

  They were just feet from their objective when a high-pitched whistling sound caused Margaret to glance upwards. The elderly veteran flung himself over her, pulling her and himself to the ground.

  The shelter received a direct hit and exploded, throwing up debris and burying Margaret and her valiant oldtimer under bricks and rubble. Within fifteen minutes firemen had uncovered the bodies, but unlike those in the shelter, Margaret’s and the old gentleman’s were whole and largely unmarked. There was no sign of life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I shouldn’t have left her side. I knew she wasn’t herself, I should have slept on the couch in her bedroom and kept an eye on her.’

  ‘Mrs Browell, don’t blame yourself. You were marvellous to her, wonderful. Everyone knows that. Come on, please. You’ll make yourself ill.’ Carrie found she was virtually holding the housekeeper up as they walked away from the graveside, and she signalled to David who was a few yards behind her to come and take Mrs Browell’s other arm.

  As he reached them, Freda Browell gave way to racking sobs. ‘Miss Margaret, oh, Miss Margaret. What am I going to do? She wasn’t just a mistress to me, she was more like the daughter I never had. And Mr Sutton told me he knew I’d look after her while he was away. What’s he going to say to me now? And we don’t know how he is. And then there’s Mr Reed. What’s happened, Mrs Sutton? Everything has changed. It’s terrible, terrible.’

  Carrie could give little comfort because she agreed with her. It had been a terrible shock to them all when they’d received the news that Margaret had disappeared, apparently in the middle of the night, and then within twenty-four hours the police had called with the grim news that they suspected they had found Margaret’s body at Seaham. Mrs Browell had been in such a state she hadn’t been able to accompany Olive to identify the body, but David had gone with his mother while Carrie and Lillian had sat with Mrs Browell at the house. And then, before Olive and David returned, a telegram arrived. It informed them Alec was a prisoner of war.

  Mr Reed, who had collapsed with a suspected heart attack at the report of his daughter’s disappearance, did not live to hear the news of her death confirmed; he passed away with a second massive attack just hours after the first. Two deaths, which made Alec a very rich man, but what good were all the riches in the world if a man was incarcerated in one of those terrible camps they were reading about in the newspapers? Carrie shivered, but it was caused by a chill within rather than the bitter wind cutting through the bleak cemetery.

  And now Olive had declared herself to be permanently in residence at the Riding
s, Alec’s house, telling all and sundry she intended to keep it functioning as normal so it would be just as Alec remembered it when ‘the dear boy comes home’.

  Olive was very much the mistress of the occasion today, Carrie thought, glancing over the head of the weeping Mrs Browell and watching as Olive talked to the local vicar, for all the world as if she was the lady of the manor. And Mrs Browell must have been thinking along the same lines because she raised her tear-washed face and said brokenly, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sutton, but I can’t stay on at the house, not with Mr Sutton’s mother. She’s made it very plain she thinks I ought to look for alternative employment, and to be truthful I would have anyway. I . . . I can’t get on with her.’

  You and the rest of the world. Carrie nodded, saying, ‘I understand, Mrs Browell.’

  ‘Miss Margaret wasn’t the same after Mr Sutton’s mother walked through the door,’ Mrs Browell continued, wiping her face with her handkerchief. ‘I might be saying it as shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. That woman scared madam to death, her nerves went all to pieces the last few days before she . . . before . . .’