George knelt on the carpet and put a hand on my shoulder, patting it lightly. ‘Never mind,’ he whispered. Never mind – that is what he would say when I had broken a plate or burnt the dinner – Never mind!
I didn’t say anything. The world seemed so different now, like it was spinning without me, and George and the midwife and the motorcars on the road, the singing birds and whistling lamplighters were spinning with it. I alone stayed still, abandoned in time and space. I began to wonder if I had died too.
‘Try to look at it this way,’ said George after a while. ‘Well… we never really did discuss it, did we? It’s not something we really wanted.’ He forced a little smile and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m far too old for children… and well, it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for that damn Dutch cap.’ He smiled and patted my shoulder again. ‘You know that I don’t really like children. You do know that, don’t you?’
I stared at him. Why was he saying all this? It couldn’t be true, could it? That he didn’t like children? He had said it before but I had always put it down to his bad moods, when his back was giving him trouble or because he felt frail. I had told myself it was because the noise of boys playing football in the road gave him a headache or because a toddler had splashed him at the lido. But when I had become pregnant I thought things were different – he seemed to have been looking forward to the new arrival, helping me to decorate the new nursery, bringing bags of hand-me-downs from his brother in Oxworth and even getting out the gaudy silver rattle that he had been given when he was a baby – a grand Marks family heirloom placed in my child’s humble cot. And then he had seen Violet when she was born. I thought, like me, that he must have loved her instantly but now he was saying this – that he didn’t like children. Had Violet meant no more to him than just any another child?
George turned his head slightly. The light caught his hair and I noticed that it was thinning, his eyes seemed to have shrunk behind his spectacles and his voice was deepening with age. Had I married an old man after all? Old men didn’t like children, did they? George didn’t like children. He sighed and took a large key out of his pocket. Then he left the room and went upstairs. I heard his footsteps above me on the landing and then the rattle of the key in the nursery door. He was locking the room, for the last time, I thought.
He didn’t look at me when he came back into the lounge, just sank down in the armchair by the fire. I remember thinking that this was a strange thing for him to do because he’d never sat in that chair before; it had always been for guests. He poured himself a sherry and put the glass on the mantelpiece. Then he took the newspaper from the sideboard and opened it in front of him, holding it high so that the top part of his body became a mass of paper and print. I watched him; the armchair, the newspaper and the legs sticking out underneath – long, spindly legs, crossed at the knee so that his trousers rode up revealing bands of pale skin and a web of blue veins beneath the hem.
That was the first time that he had sat there. I had forgotten that until now. And I sat with him in the same room, childless in a house meant for children, married but alone, together but apart. And from then on, we sat like that every day, George reading his paper and me gazing out the window, just as we did on that day – the first day of my new life.
11
I woke at dawn on Thursday, the dull glow behind the curtains enough to fill me with excitement about what another day at Rose Cottage might bring. By the time George came downstairs I was already perched on the window seat, hat on head and bag in hand. He made no remarks about the fact that my breakfast plate was already in the sink nor that my side of the bed had been empty when he woke, in fact he said very little and soon he was out the door. Once George’s car had crawled away past the war memorial, I jumped up and left the house, hurrying over the crossroads and taking the dirt track up to the farms.
When I arrived at the cottage, Maud opened the door in tears: ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Marks, but the garments ain’t arrived.’
‘What do you mean haven’t arrived?’ I said.
She snivelled into her sleeve. ‘Well it’s usually a van that comes you see – my nephew – he delivers them from the factory, along with the wages. He should have come yesterday but we’ve not seen him. I fear you’ve had a wasted journey.’
I was about to enquire as to why Maud had not telephoned but then my eye caught the cracked oil lamp on the worktop, the pot-bellied stove with the broken door and the rusted draining board, and I realized that I already knew the answer. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mrs Brown,’ I said, then, desperate for an excuse to stay, added, ‘but they could still arrive today. If your nephew decided to leave this morning, he might only have set off at dawn and it’s a long drive from Oxworth. I don’t mind waiting, at least until ten.’
‘I can’t pay you for your time,’ Maud said quickly.
‘Oh that’s quite all right,’ I said. I was about to tell her how little I minded, but then I remembered that I was the unfortunate Mrs Marks forced into labour by my husband’s terrible gambling debts and instead I added: ‘Well, just the hope of earning a bit more makes it worth staying, doesn’t it?’
The kitchen seemed much larger with the table clear of linen. And only now, without the din of the sewing machine, did I realize that the house was not just a workshop but a home.
‘Are the children at school?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.
Maud looked at me blankly. ‘It’s almost time for the harvest,’ she said. ‘I need them here to earn.’
‘Of course,’ I said. I knew little of the school holidays but I had not seen a single book or slate on my last visit.
Maud swept the dust off her basket chair. ‘You can sit here while you wait. I can’t offer you any—’
‘Oh, please don’t go to any effort on my account, Mrs Brown,’ I said. ‘In fact, I thought I might take a stroll outside. It is such a lovely day and I thought that I might see some more of this beautiful place that you live.’
‘Beautiful place,’ Maud echoed dully. ‘Well, I suppose I could show you the yard.’
The kitchen door opened out on to a rough rectangle of well-trodden earth slashed with long tyre tracks. A rickety henhouse leant against the cottage wall, the babble of contented chickens rising behind the slats. There was a rusty pump with a bucket dangling underneath and a skeletal mangle, still digesting a pair of limp long johns. Bed linen was drooping from the clothes line, gusting with freshness as the water caught the air.
A gangly youth lay on a plank bench, eyes closed and snoring gently. His hair was such a deep red and his skin so pale and freckled that I feared he would burn if he stayed in the sun a moment longer.
‘Andy,’ Maud swiped at him with a dishcloth. ‘You fed them chickens?’
Andy lifted his head. ‘It ain’t my turn!’ his voice cracked. ‘It’s Henry’s’. He sat upright, yawned and cricked his neck from side to side.
‘He’s into communism,’ said Maud as if it were an explanation for her son’s rudeness. ‘He uses it as an excuse to be lazy – says I’m an oppressor.’ She swung her dishcloth at him again.
‘I didn’t know there were any communists in Hertfordshire!’ I said, trying to sound friendly.
Andy gave me a withering look then picked up a rusty grain bucket, kicked open a gate to a long, sloping field and threw a handful of grain onto the grass. A loud clucking filled the air and four white chickens fluttered from the henhouse and waddled frantically through the gate, jabbing their beaks into the earth.
Distant laughter came from the field and I saw a small copse of birch and hawthorn at the top of the hill, flashes of movement between the trees.
‘Little bleeders!’ exclaimed Maud. ‘That’s our landlord’s field – he ain’t going to like them running wild up there.’ But there was no surprise in her voice and I guessed her displeasure was just for my benefit and that the children were always running wild wherever they pleased. In fact there was a well-worn path between the
gate and the copse and several patches of flattened grass.
‘Oh, I’m sure the farmer won’t mind,’ I said. ‘The field seems to be in fallow at the moment anyway, so I don’t think—’
‘Jim-John!’ yelled Maud.
A shape appeared from the trees and started moving down the hill towards us. I had thought that I had seen a boy on my last visit to the cottage, but now as the shape got closer, I saw that the boy was in fact two. The two boys then stopped suddenly, at a spot that seemed familiar to them, as if they knew the exact point where Maud could hear but not catch them. I saw that they were almost identical – thin and freckled, but one with hair a shade lighter than his brother as if he were a faded copy on carbon paper.
‘Jim-John,’ cried Maud. ‘Come and be civil to Mrs Marks!’
But the boys just chuckled, the darker one gesturing with two fingers, before they ran off back up the hill.
‘Oh dear… but really, it doesn’t matter,’ I said in response to an apology that never came.
‘Where do you think Henry is?’ I said and then, trying to sound casual, ‘…and Ruby?’
‘Oh they’re around here somewhere,’ Maud smiled. ‘She’s your favourite, ain’t she?’
‘Ruby?’ I said, annoyed that I had been unable to disguise my feelings. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘You’d be surprised, it often happens with ladies such as yourself. They take pity on the poor mite.’
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Well there’s always a kind word for her from a vicar’s wife or a schoolmistress. Miss Potter in the reception class always took pity on her, gave her humbugs. They feel sorry for her, I suppose.’
‘Because of her birthmark you mean?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You see, things will only be harder for her when she grows up. She can’t really have any dreams, not with her coming from a place like this and with that face. A farm girl that was bright and pretty might do well for herself, become a shop girl in a town, maybe a waitress or maid. But poor Ruby, with that face, she’ll end up doing farm work or sewing just like her mother. They don’t want to see the likes of her in town, you see, not with an ugly mug like that.’
I was about to protest at the harshness of her words but there was a sudden creak and a scattering of white feathers and Ruby burst from the henhouse. ‘Bitch!’ she screamed.
‘Mind your language, young lady!’ shouted Maud. ‘If I’d known you was in with those hens earwigging again, you nosey little…’ But she was too late as Ruby was already through the gate and halfway up the field. ‘I should have known,’ said Maud. ‘She’s always hiding in there, mollycoddling them chickens, always that mangy Snowflake.’
I stepped through the gate, my eyes following Ruby as she ran. I knew that I had to talk to her, show her that I did not agree with Maud. ‘She’s upset,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we—’
‘Oh no, she won’t listen to me now, I’ll just have to put up with her foul mouth and then she’ll get the back of my hand.’
‘Maybe I could—’
‘You can try, but you won’t get nowhere with her. Not when she’s like this.’
‘But—’
‘Oh go on then, if you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. You can’t talk about the face, you see, she won’t talk about the face to nobody.’
*
I found Ruby lying in the long grass where the edge of the field met a tangle of brambles. She looked me right in the eyes: ‘Sod. Off.’
I tried not to react, but I know that she saw the shock in my face and smiled to herself.
‘Well?’ I said indignantly. ‘You are ugly, aren’t you; if that’s the way you like to talk.’
‘Don’t matter then, does it?’ she said. ‘Ugly mouth goes with ugly face.’
‘I don’t think you are ugly,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’
‘Maybe I want to be,’ she said, then smiled mischievously. She hooked her lip with her finger and pulled it down, revealing her teeth and gums. Then she pulled her eyelids down, exposing the mass of red capillaries, and crushed her nose to one side.
‘Please stop that,’ I said, but she continued, her fingers clawing her flesh until her face became distorted and her skin was crossed with red scratches. ‘Stop that!’ I shouted. ‘Stop that now!’
Ruby jumped as if she had expected me to strike her and her hands fell to her lap, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Okay, maybe you are right,’ I said more gently. ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.’
She twisted her mouth sulkily but would not look at me.
‘All right then, will you let me tell you why it’s more important how you behave than how you look?’
‘You’re going to anyway, aren’t you,’ she muttered. ‘I know you grand lady types and your sermons.’
I ignored her and tried to smile. ‘No sermons, I promise. Instead let me tell you a story about a girl I once knew. She lived right here and she was Queen of the May – Missensham’s May Queen. But because she was a pretty girl she knew that she never had to try for anything, because everything always came to her. She wasn’t good at making her own friends because people wanted to be around her anyway and she never learned how to win an argument because she got her own way most of the time. She never had anything to aim for or anything to fight for. The only people who didn’t care how she looked were her parents and they made her work hard and she hated them for it. She didn’t want to work for things herself, she wanted to be with people who would give her what she wanted without question. So when a rich man wanted to marry her, that was good enough for her, she just went along with it. But the years went by and she wasn’t happy and soon she wasn’t beautiful anymore and so she had nothing left and people began to realize this and her friends all left when she didn’t bother to keep up with them and even her husband found her a bore.’
I drew a deep breath. It was a long time since I had talked for so long. Ruby stared at me thoughtfully. I felt strangely self-conscious under her stare. I had not been so close to her before. Her eyes were an almost hypnotic green, with an explosion of amber from the pupil. Her face was pale, the thread of a thin blue vein in the almost translucent skin at her temple. Even the birthmark now seemed delicate, a gentle feathering at the edges of the red tears. How could something so perfect be considered ugly? Suddenly I wanted to tell her everything and I wanted her to believe it and accept it and I wanted her to walk back to Little Willow with me, hand in hand. I wanted to—
‘Did you get to ride a horse?’ said Ruby suddenly.
I felt my cheeks warm. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you were May Queen? Did you get to ride on a horse?’
‘No!’ I said sharply, shocked that she had seen through the story, but then I thought that maybe this secret could be the start of our connection. I tried to smile. ‘Oh no, I had to walk a very long way and my feet really hurt in the white slippers.’ I laughed. ‘So you see, being pretty didn’t do me any good.’
She laughed too. ‘I would like a horse,’ she said. ‘Not like the farm horses. I saw a grand lady in town once, she was on a dapple grey mare. It was plump and its tail was like silk.’ She jumped up and stood with her legs bowed, her hands pulling on imaginary reins as she rode seriously, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘I don’t care what Maudy says. I just want a grey mare and I will ride it in to town, clip-clop, up to my grand house, which I will have all to myself, just room for me and the mare and Smokey and Snowflake. Nobody else will be invited to stay. They can’t live with me. I hate them all!’
‘You don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘You surely can’t mean that about Maud!’
She stopped riding and the horse vanished from underneath her. Her face became thoughtful, then she said bitterly: ‘I don’t want to be like her – she leaves us hungry – you know she can’t even afford any meat until she does all that sewing.’
‘Your mother works hard for y
ou,’ I said. ‘How would you like to be sewing all the time?’
‘Clarence takes all the money and he spends it on beer.’
‘And some of it goes back to Maud so she can buy you meat – you just said the sewing buys the meat.’
‘Spose so.’ Ruby’s chin slumped into her hand. ‘But my face is her fault,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m ugly because of her!’
‘An accident of birth is never the mother’s fault,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s nothing more than an act of God. Your face is perfect. so there is nobody to blame.’
She folded her arms and looked at me weirdly, blinking quickly like she didn’t understand. I thought that maybe she didn’t believe in God. I desperately searched for some words and phrases that a child would understand but none came.
‘Whatever you say,’ she said, ‘but it is her fault.’
‘Maud would feel terrible if she could hear you saying that. You don’t want to upset her any more, do you?’
She shrugged.
‘You called her a nasty word earlier,’ I said. I put my arm round her tentatively. ‘I’ve got an idea – why don’t you go and pick her some flowers to say sorry?’
She sighed and pulled a face but then she got up and trudged over to the trees and squatted down in the grass, her head bobbing as she worked.
I thought about my young life above the dress shop. I had not known I was poor until I looked back on it, and even then, we always had enough to eat, even if I did work my fingers to the bone to get it. Then there was George: his family’s grand house in Oxworth, with the piano in the drawing room; the motorcar bought for a doctor’s rounds that barely covered a square mile; and the way that he had become accustomed to dine on a roast chicken whenever he visited his brother. But I had never quite realized just how rich his family had been until I saw the silver rattle he’d inherited for his christening – a silver handle with an ivory teether, with delicate little bells and fine engraving. When his family became mine, the rattle passed to Violet, the daughter of a humble seamstress, yet she was never to use it and it ended up buried with her in her coffin where it was no good to anybody. I wondered what gifts Ruby would have received for her christening, if indeed she had been christened at all.
The Liar Page 7
