‘We haven’t called any. Joe said not to fuss.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘That’s Joe. Wise or not he’s made up his mind.’
‘Oh right. We’ve brought a few things, haven’t we, Maggie? We thought it might help at such a busy time.’
Maggie Jeffers thrust the basket forward. ‘There’s a goose I helped pluck and a puddin’ boilin’ all night and mince pies as we sell in the Nanny.’
Bertha Carmody peered into the basket but made no effort to take it.
‘Bertha!’ Joe, his voice cracked from coughing, called down the stairs. ‘Where’s your manners woman? What you doin’ keepin’ madam on the door step?’
The door was cracked wider but with no real enthusiasm.
‘No need!’ Julia was embarrassed. ‘You’re busy.’
Mrs Carmody folded her arms. ‘I do have a lot to manage at the moment. Joe’s always complaining of one ailment or other but never really ill until now.’
‘Then perhaps he ought to see a doctor if only for an opinion.’
‘If you mean your German doctor I doubt we could afford him.’
‘My German doctor?’
Maggie poked her head forward. ‘She means Doctor Adelman, madam, him as doctors the Queen. She’s saying they can’t afford him.’
‘Bertha what’s goin’ on?’ Joe shouted down again. ‘Quit gabbin’ and bring madam in. And tell that Maggie Jeffers to mind her manners talkin’ of her betters in that way! She wouldn’t dare do it if I were up and about!’
Mrs Carmody gestured. ‘Might I invite you in for a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you no.’ Julia stepped back. ‘Matty’s in the Nativity play this afternoon at Greenfields and I’m in rather a rush.’
‘So I heard. I would have liked to have seen it but not with Joe poorly.’
‘The whole of Bakers is invited,’ said Maggie. ‘My sister Flora’s girl is an angel and Matty is a Wise Man. He’s to wear a turban and ride a camel.’
Julia sighed. ‘Matty is a shepherd and is to carry a lamb.’
‘Does he have much to say?’ said Bertha, ‘him and his poorly voice?’
‘He has eight words, ‘I bring you a lamb, Dear Baby Jesus.’’
‘Well that’s nice. Joe will be disappointed to miss it.’
‘Perhaps Matty could drop by tomorrow and tell him how it went.’
‘No thank you. Our Clifford is coming from Norwich with his wife and kiddies. I’ll be busy with them and won’t have time.’
Maggie was still poking about in the basket. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Mrs Mac has made bramble jelly. Joe likes bramble jelly.’
Mrs Carmody snatched the basket. ‘It’s Mr Carmody to you, Margaret Jeffers! You need to mind your manners! You’ve far too much to say for yourself which might be alright for some around here but doesn’t wash with me!’
Julia thought it time to move on. ‘You’ll find a gift in there for Mr Carmody in appreciation of his work and there’s something too from Matty. Do please give him our love and tell him to get well. We can’t manage without him.’
‘You might have to manage.’ Mrs Carmody’s face was harsh in the morning light. ‘Joe’s not as young as he was and must be stopped going out in all weather. I’ve tried telling him but he won’t listen. Maybe if you do he will.’
Bang the door slammed!
Maggie sucked her teeth. ‘Not very friendly is she, madam.’
‘I imagine she has a lot on her mind.’
‘Is Joe going to die?’
‘Mr Carmody has bronchitis. I hope there’s no need for anyone to die.’
They walked further and then Maggie coughed. ‘She blames you for him bein’ ill. She says he’s never home. He’s always lookin’ to your interests.’
‘What? She said that?’
‘No but it’s in her head. She thinks it’ll be your fault if he dies.’
‘Good God, Maggie, how can you say such a thing?’
‘It’s what she’s thinkin’, madam, as plain as day. And if he does die it’ll be what the whole village is thinkin’.
Julia pushed on toward the churchyard. There’s nothing she could do about Joe until the New Year but when he does come back to work, if he comes back, there’ll be changes. Mrs Carmody may have been brusque but she has a point.
It was bitterly cold. It had snowed heavily overnight drifts backed up along the High Street. Men were busy clearing the paths but it was still hard going.
Maggie was red-faced and panting. ‘Are we to call at the Nelson?’
‘I hadn’t planned to.’
‘We’ve parcels for them.’
‘Yes but they are to be posted.’
‘But that’s a waste of stamps!’
‘Is your concern for stamps, Maggie, or more about seeing the boot boy?’
Maggie tossed her head. ‘Not at all, madam, I was thinkin’ of you.’ When they got to the churchyard she hung back. ‘I ain’t goin’ in there. I don’t like walkin’ on graves. All them dead faces starin’ up.’
‘Then you may as well go.’ Julia held out a package. ‘And take this with you.’
‘What is it?’ Maggie flew in through the gate.
‘It’s the blue ribbons you wanted, the marrying ribbons. You could wear them tonight with your boot boy and see if they help move things along.’
Maggie rushed away. She is to stay with her mother over Christmas, thank the Lord. The tea shop closed and Mrs Mac and Leah on their way to Dorset that just leaves Dorothy Manners, a nice quiet girl, and hopefully peace on earth and good will to all men.
‘Hallelujah!’
Susan’s grave is on the far side of the churchyard, not exactly beyond the boundary but close enough to appease St Bedes Good Wives. The grave has lately had a visitor boot marks in the snow and a circlet off flowers crowning a marble cherub’s head. Stefan bought the monument. ‘A cherub guards my son in the Adelman vault. God willing we shall one day all be together as will this little family.’ The cherub guards the grave. Wings drooping and baby rabbit under his arm he kneels in tender care his crown of roses a beacon through the snow. A card hangs from a ribbon the ink smudged but the words legible, Evie’s handwriting, ‘Sleep in peace Susan. May the Lord watch over you. ’
Freddie’s involvement in the tragedy is known throughout Norfolk. Everyone discusses it, all are shocked but apparently none surprised. ‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Mac was heard to say to Leah. ‘They are gentry and artistic. They do what they like and they get away with it.’ Recalling Freddie at the séance, staring eyes and trembling mouth, Julia doubted he’d got away with anything.
It’s been a strange week and one she’d sooner not go through again. The Nativity Play is a trial for Matty. When he said he was to play a shepherd Julia had reservations. ‘I can do it Mumma,’ he’d said. ‘It’s easy.’
‘What will you have to say?’
‘I bring you a lamb, Dear Baby Jesus.’
‘Oh that’s not so bad. In fact that’s rather nice.’ It wasn’t nice. Every Sunday morning Matty goes go to church happy but returns pale and worried.
‘What is it, dear heart? Don’t you like being a shepherd?’
He’d shake his head. ‘Don’t like it.’
‘Then what about being a cow? All they do is moo .You could let someone else be a shepherd.’ He shakes his head. It’s the knitted Lamb. It was Owen’s Lamb. His Mama made it and Owen wouldn’t be parted from it. Matty is the same. It sits on his bed all day and is only ever held by Matty. Kaiser is allowed to carry it in his mouth hence the Lamb is a rather grubby grey.
‘Let’s not worry about being in the Play,’ Julia then suggested. ‘Let’s just watch.’ That didn’t work. It seems Matty had promised the Lamb.
‘I said he would meet Baby Jesus and he wants to meet Him.’<
br />
It was the dratted words. He practices all the time, ‘I bring you a Lamb Dear Baby Jesus.’ He’s only to misplace one word to start all over again. Anxious, Julia spoke to Miss Perkins, the teacher who was sympathetic but had ‘a lot on her mind at the moment and would be glad if Matthew’s mother would please sort it out.’ Short of a miracle Julia knows it will end it tears but promised to be in the audience. ‘In fact,’ she’d said, ‘when it’s over we’ll have a party, you, me, Kaiser and the Lamb. We’ll spread cushions on the floor and toast bread.’ Bread blackened by fire and thick with butter is to Matty the height of decadence and so he said he’d do his part.
Julia laid the wreath on the grave, said a prayer, and asked Susan to watch over Matty this afternoon. ‘Because he is a good little boy and so wants to please Jesus.’
The wreath laid she hurried on to the post-office. So many packages! She’s already sent to Germany. She didn’t know what to buy but settled on a blue cashmere scarf for Stefan and a rose-coloured shawl for Karoline. So far she’s not had a reply and suspects Stefan finding it hard. Recalling her struggles with father, the sheer physicality of it, the pulling and lifting and every night she’d go to bed exhausted, nursing the mentally ill tests the soul.
Packages for sisters Charlotte and May were posted last week along with Greenfields, a bottle of lavender-water for Callie and a book on Christina Rossetti for Daniel. He is another slow to reply to mail but then he’s miles away. Three times last week Callie enquired at the cottage, ‘has Julia heard from South Africa.’ Callie suspects he’ll not be home for Christmas and says it’ll be the first time ever, that even when he was in China he’d made it home for the holiday. Her parting shot, Julia again the villain, was that ‘had he expected a warmer welcome from England he would’ve returned.’
The Nelson packages were last to post. Silly really, as Maggie said they could be hand delivered, but there you are, one is brought up to behave in a certain way and can’t get beyond it...and it is rumoured Luke Roberts is home.
Nan Roberts is happy. Luke is home. He’s not staying at the Nelson. He’s dug into his house on Fairy Common but at least he’ll be sharing Christmas lunch.
He is here now leaning against the dresser gnawing a chicken drumstick.
Nan slapped his hand. ‘That’s enough of that. They’re for the public bar and folks that pay our wages not cheeky sons. Look at all that snow!’ She peered through the window. ‘If the forecast is right there’s more to come!’
Luke took another drumstick. ‘And you’ll be snowbound and the public bar empty so I may as well have another of these. Which reminds me,’ he turned to Albert. ‘Did your lads look to lagging the pipes in the Harrogate place?’
‘They did.’
‘Well done. The last thing we want is burst pipes on a newly carpeted floor. And the Derbyshire House, did you manage to check the boiler?’
Albert nodded.
‘And is that alright no problems with the motor?’
‘It’s as I said the last time you asked it’s runnin’ smooth as clockwork. For heaven’s sake, lad, do yourself and me a favour and settle down. It’s Christmas and we’re supposed to be on holiday.’
‘Talking of lagging pipes,’ said Nan, ‘are you warm in that house of yours? I popped in the other day to do a bit of tidying and thought how cold it was. No colour and hardly any furniture, you live like a hermit.’
‘Some hermit!’ Albert yawned. ‘He owns half of Manchester. A chippie the other day called him Mister Rockefeller.’
Luke laughed. ‘And does he know who Rockefeller is?’
‘I doubt it but you’d best be careful. Don’t climb to high. You know how folks do like to bring a man down.’
‘I’d like to see ‘em try!’ said Nan. ‘I’m glad he makes his money work for him. He works hard enough. I just feel his position should be reflected in his house.’
‘And what position is that?’ said Luke.
‘A successful man.’
‘And does a successful man require more furniture?’
‘He does! He wants Aubusson rugs on the floor and linen sheets on his bed. He wants fashion and colour and mirrors that light up the room.’
‘I have linen sheets on the bed and I a sheepskin before the fire. That’ll do for now.’ Luke pushed away from the dresser. ‘I’m going out to look at Betty and taking a currycomb with me. Her coat is rough and her tail full of burrs.’
‘That’s not my concern. I am busy enough without worryin’ about a horse.’
‘Too busy to care for an old and faithful friend?’
‘I’m never too busy for that but since you’ve been away Betty is the pot boy’s job. I told him the other day to attend to her.’
‘Well he’s not doing it right. Best leave her alone. If he can’t be trusted to do it right I’ll find someone who can.’ That led to a spat, mother saying he’s a fine one to talk of not caring him and Albert always away; if it wasn’t for the public bar she’d have no one to talk to. Luke swept her up in a hug whereupon she boxed his ears and said to put her down, he was busting her ribs.
Christmas this year has come with a sudden rush. Luke went home to change. There’s a bit of do later this afternoon at the Big House. The children of St Bedes are putting on a Nativity Play. They’ve done it for the church and are to repeat the performance. Augustus Simpkin, newly elected Mayor, and other of Bakers more illustrious people are invited to watch and share a cup of punch. Nan received an invitation as had Luke. Nan puts her invite down to having taken tea with the Prince of Wales. Luke thinks it is because Greenfields’s roof is leaking. Earlier this year Daniel Masson suggested A Roberts & Sons might put in a tender for a complete overhaul. Overloaded with work and not that keen to work for Mr Masson Luke said he wouldn’t be able to do anything until the end of 1901. The old lady started calling on the phone and leaving messages to whit she’s a defenceless woman in need of help. A fortnight of that, and weather permitting, the roof on both the North and West Wing is the next job. ‘And when you’ve done that, dear Mr Roberts, perhaps you’ll take a look at the plumbing,’ she said when he visited. ‘I’ve heard good things about you. I know you’ll not let me down.’
An invitation to the Play and a glass of sherry is the result of his promise.
There was a time when he’d think twice about a job this size never mind refusing it but those days are gone. He is not as he was a bruised fingernail skirting the edge of life. Master they call him now and not only the gangs of workers he employs, the joiners, glaziers and carpenters, it is suppliers who call him and the bank manager. ‘Good day, sir, what can we do for you?’ They can handle his brass is what they can do, tidy sums going in week-after-week, and for that matter tidy sums coming out. Money was never the objective, it was more a by-product. It’s the same with property. He has the house on the Common and several more around Norfolk in various states of renovation. Last week in Manchester he bought a whole street of worker’s cottages. He hadn’t gone with thought of buying but they were derelict and the council looking to sell. It was too good a deal to miss and he bought them thinking Lucca Aldaro would have been pleased.
Windows boarded up, and dandelion clocks blowing, it was summer when he first saw East Street, Little Ancoats. He thought of his father and the kiddie that fell into the lock, Letty, who grubbed for pennies under a cotton gin, then he thought of Susan Dudley and the waxen doll in her arms and decided he must help otherwise what’s the point of living. He’s no philanthropist. Too many years of hard graft have made that way of thinking impossible but when renovated he will let the cottages at a reasonable rent, and if children thereabouts need a school one day he will build one, and his son, when he does come along, will go to college and to University, to Cambridge, perhaps, where Owen Passmore taught.
These were but dreams once, now they are possibilities.
Dreams? Owen Passmore? Didn’t
he dream of him last night?
It was a familiar dream, Italian mountains and digging gullies so that the rain coming down the mountains might bypass the vines. It’s always the same. He and his father load a wagon and they set off. His wife walks alongside. He can see her clear as day the blouse she wears dipping over her shoulders, the rich cleavage of her breasts inviting a kiss. And he does kiss her but on her lips, his wife a modest woman not given to displays of affection. A child cries. Anxious, she turns back her skirt flaring. ‘Don’t fret!’ He says. ‘That’s not our son.’
Last night a third man sat aboard the wagon. Tall and scholarly looking he stared at Luke and said, ‘no, he is mine.’
Luke woke with Owen Passmore’s voice in his ear. He’s never met the man but knows it was him on the wagon. It’s Matty. Luke is always worrying about that lad especially after that foolish séance. For some reason he sees that message, a child singing and dog’s tail wagging, as a warning of danger.
He loves Matty and has missed him these last years. According to Nan it’s a two-way love. She’ll phone when Luke’s away, ‘the kiddie was here this morning asking when you were coming home.’
Luke made sure he was home for this Christmas. There’s something in the air, a rustling sound snowflakes in the wind and hidden voices in the crackle of ice. He needs to be here. Matty, and Jacky his brother, and Freddie Carrington, have merged to become one constant anxiety. Luke’s never been one for praying. These days pray is all he does. A silent thing, like a nursery rhyme, he hears it back of his mind, ‘Dear Lord, keep Matty and Freddie safe, and bless my brother Jacky.’
What the hell! It’s absurd! He hasn’t seen Freddie since the séance. There is the occasional letter filled with bad jokes and doodles, mostly of Freddie nailed to a cross. He never hears from Jacky, doesn’t dream of him. Matty he sees all the time. Yesterday he caught the early morning express Manchester to Kings Lynn and then the link to Bakers. Twelve minutes to four the train pulled into the station. Four-thirty Luke turned the key in the door, four forty-five there was a dog scratching at the door. He knew who was there a lop-sided grin on his dear little face and one sock falling down.
Fragile Blossoms Page 37
