A Mother's Choice

by Val Wood

  Peggy took herself into the scullery and pumped water into the kettle, giving herself time to digest the information she had been given. She shivered, the cold air of the scullery giving her goose pimples after the heat from the kitchen fire. She heard the dog bark from his kennel, probably in response to a fox. She peered out of the window but could see nothing but blackness and the reflection of the small paraffin lamp that sat on a shelf behind her.

  How could anyone turn their own daughter out of her home? Their own flesh and blood. It wasn’t right, especially if it wasn’t her fault; they should have got ’police out searching for ’culprit. Or perhaps they thought they’d be tainted by her shame; that it would be a reflection on them. I remember her as a sweet young lass, rather shy. Who could have done that to her? Some lad – or maybe even a grown man from ’village who caught her as she was walking home. She was always on her own, running errands, shopping down in ’village; anybody might have noticed her.

  She picked up the kettle to take to the range. That last day she called here, she was in such a state; why didn’t she tell me? Was that ’same day it happened – or later? Was she running here, to ’nearest place? Frightened? Did she ask for our Jenny, or did she know she wasn’t at home? I can’t remember what she said; I thought she was going to pass out. I brought her inside, made her a cup of tea, I think. She sighed. It was a long time ago.

  She placed the kettle on the hook over the fire and as she turned to sit down she glanced across at Robin, fast asleep on the sofa. Poor bairn. So where’ve they been all this time? And where’s his mother staying now? There’s more to this than I’ve yet been told.

  ‘Davis Deakin was in ’Humber Tavern,’ Aaron said abruptly, which made Jenny and her mother jump; it was as if he had been reading their thoughts. ‘He’s a miserable owd beggar! Never has ’time of day for anybody. When you think how long he’s been fishing in these waters alongside all ’other Paull Shrimpers, you’d think he’d have summat to say, wouldn’t you? And even if’ – his rare anger surfaced – ‘even when they say how do to him, he onny nods, never looks anybody in ’eye.’

  No one commented until Jack asked suddenly, ‘Where did their daughter go? Dorothy? Did she leave ’district? I don’t remember seeing her in years.’ And then, just as abruptly, and it seemed to Jenny, who was watching him as a cat might watch a mouse, that he might have been reminded of something, he asked if Susan had gone to bed.

  ‘Only just missed her, have you?’ she said slyly. ‘Isn’t that just typical of men, conveniently forgetting their womenfolk?’

  Aaron tutted gently. ‘Our Jenny’s got a bee in her bonnet about summat, Mother. Have you worked out what it is?’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘It’ll be a honey bee, I expect,’ she murmured.

  ‘She’s mebbe turning into one o’ those men-haters, Da,’ Jack chipped in. ‘That’s why she’s never married.’

  ‘Kettle’s on ’boil.’ Peggy rose swiftly to her feet. ‘Who wants tea, and who wants cocoa?’

  Peggy was the last to go up and sat pondering, gazing into the banked-up fire. Outside the wind blowing in from the sea began to whine and whistle and she glanced across at Robin, then got up and put her hand on the windowsill above him to check if there was a draught. Although there wasn’t, she went to fetch a thick towel from a drawer and tucked it along the bottom of the pane and drew the curtains closer.

  His face was in calm and quiet repose, and as she gazed at him she felt the urge to weep. If what Jenny had told her was true, then by rights this child should be at the Deakins’ house; he was their flesh and blood, their only grandchild. And what would they make of him? If they took him would they treat him as badly as they’d treated their daughter? Why, she thought fiercely, they’d probably turn him away just as they’d turned her away all those years ago.

  I’ll keep him safe here, she decided, making the commitment without any qualms or reservations, until such time as his mother is able to give him a proper home.

  She smiled down at him as he uttered a deep sigh and tucked a hand beneath his cheek. I’ll love him as my own, just as I do ’other bairns, and I won’t make any discrimination between ’em and I won’t listen to any argument from our Jack either. Aaron won’t mind; I think he’s tekken a liking to the lad.

  She moved away and turned down the lamp on the table, leaving only the flickering firelight from the range to give the room a soft warm glow.

  ‘Night night, Robin,’ she said softly as she lifted the latch of the staircase door and smiled as she heard him murmur in his sleep.

  ‘Mmm, Granny Peg.’

  When Jenny arrived back in Hull she made a quick visit to Delia’s lodgings and discovered from Giles Dawson that she had gone across to the Maritime Hotel to rehearse the songs that she would sing over Christmas.

  ‘Could I discuss something with you, Miss Robinson?’ Giles asked. ‘Something that I think might add to the holiday atmosphere at the Maritime and even make it feel romantic – not that it is,’ he quickly assured her. ‘It’s a piece of theatre, that’s all. But not to tell Miss Delamour! I would like her to show surprise, not pretend to it.’

  She’d arched her brows at this, but smiled when he explained and said yes, she agreed.

  ‘Are you staying here over Christmas, or going home?’ she asked, indicating the lodgings.

  ‘I’m staying here, but I’m taking a leaf out of Miss Delamour’s book and having Christmas Day lunch at the Maritime.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she said. ‘Then why don’t you join us? A small group of friends and I are sharing a table with Miss Delamour. You are very welcome.’

  He seemed startled for a moment, and then said, ‘That’s most thoughtful of you, but …’ He hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t want Miss Delamour to think I was taking undue advantage. We barely know each other.’

  Again she lifted her eyebrows. ‘Therefore an opportunity to rectify that oversight? I will go across now and find out if she has any objection, and if she has,’ she said, as she swept out of the door, ‘I will of course tell you immediately.’

  He gave a little chuckle. He liked this positive young woman who wasn’t in the least daunted by anyone, unlike the gentle Miss Delamour. Miss Robinson would be a force to be reckoned with. No one would take advantage of her.

  Delia had run through several classical songs to decide which would be appropriate for the various days. Christmas Eve, something light, she thought; Christmas Day something a little richer in tone to begin with and ending on a celebratory note; and for Boxing Day, the final day of the holiday, music with a lilt that would send the guests home with a melody ringing in their ears to remind them of a happy time.

  She guessed that many of the guests might be lonely, which was why they were there and not with their families; although for some, like Jenny, it might have been their choice, for whatever reason.

  Loneliness she would know, for this would be the first Christmas she would not spend with her darling son, and she would have wept but for knowing that he was safe, well fed and with friends. He will miss me too, some of the time; she consoled herself with the thought, but she also knew that a child could be cheered by good company and she had known on meeting him that he wasn’t unhappy.

  Jenny breezed into the dining room where Delia was fingering the keys of the piano. ‘How are you getting along?’ she asked. ‘Have you chosen the music?’

  ‘Y-yes, I think so. Will you listen to this? I thought perhaps for Christmas Eve.’

  Delia struck a note on the keyboard. ‘I wish I could play,’ she murmured. ‘I think I have the ear, but not the time or the wherewithal to pay for lessons.’

  She sang a verse of ‘Greensleeves’ and Jenny clapped approvingly, as did a young porter who was listening as he brought in a wood basket.

  ‘Lovely!’ Jenny said admiringly. ‘I can’t believe that I never heard you sing except at school or in church.’

  Delia gave a wry laugh; there was a discernible note of bitterne
ss. ‘I’ve said before, there wasn’t anything to sing about. I never told anyone, not even you, Jenny, just how miserable I was. I saw you with your lovely ma and your understanding father and wished with all my heart that I could be their daughter too.’

  She stopped. Once again she had said too much, and wouldn’t go on to tell Jenny that another reason why she sometimes ran like the wind on her errands was so that there was time to call at the Robinsons’ home on the way back without being missed or scolded by her own mother on her return home.

  ‘I’ve come to tell you something,’ Jenny began.

  ‘About Ja—Robin?’ Delia asked, immediately anxious.

  ‘No, not about Robin; he was perfectly happy when I left and he whispered to me that I should tell you so. He’s keeping the secret and I’ve told my mother about you, but not about your new name or what you’re doing, and she didn’t ask. No, it’s about Mr Giles Dawson. He said he was coming to the Maritime for Christmas lunch and I suggested that he join our table. You have no objection, have you?’

  Delia shook her head. ‘No, why would I?’

  ‘He seemed to be rather embarrassed about the idea, as if he might be intruding.’

  ‘Nonsense, of course he wouldn’t, and it would be rather nice for me, for then I would have someone I know to talk to, for I don’t know your friends, Jenny.’

  ‘I find it incredible,’ Jenny sat down on the arm of a sofa, ‘that you can be shy of meeting new people and yet can stand up in front of an audience and entertain them.’

  ‘Ah, well, you see,’ Delia’s face lit up and Jenny thought how lovely she was when she smiled, ‘when I’m on stage it’s not me, but someone else entirely. It’s a trick I learned a long time ago.’ Her voice dropped. ‘But when I sit down to eat with strangers it’s only me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Delia was as ready as she could possibly be and couldn’t believe how lucky she was with her accommodation at the Maritime Hotel. She had been given a small bedroom, adequate for a short stay and beautifully decorated with thick hangings, a very comfortable single bed, a large mirror on the wall, a wardrobe, a washbasin, a pile of thick towels for bathing and a bathroom next door on the landing.

  The agreement was that she would receive a small fee and her meals, bed and board, as the manager had put it, in return for her entertainment on each of the three days.

  She was delighted when he said, ‘If it goes well, Miss Delamour, then perhaps we could repeat the arrangement over the Easter period, depending of course on whether you are free?’

  And she agreed that she would look in her diary and check with her agent. Not that she had any intention of asking her agent, for she was managing her own affairs at present.

  She changed into her red gown for Christmas Eve supper. It was showier, more extravagant than anything she would have normally worn, but, she reminded herself, you are entertaining. Pretend you’re the hostess, Delia, she told herself nervously; be charming, you’re on stage. She could hear the voices of other guests going downstairs and hoped that Jenny was already there so that she could introduce her to her friends, and wondered too if Giles Dawson was coming tonight or only on Christmas Day.

  She waited another ten minutes and gave a final tweak at the combs in her hair; then she pulled on her long silk gloves and opened the door, locked it behind her and slipped the key into her purse before descending the stairs into the reception area.

  Some of the guests, gathered around the fire with drinks in their hands, turned to gaze at her as she paused on the bottom step with her hand on the balustrade, and then Jenny emerged from the throng.

  ‘Delia!’ Jenny put out a gloved hand to greet her. ‘How lovely you look! Come and meet everyone.’

  She escorted Delia to a smaller group of people who were standing by the window, and said gaily, ‘Here we are, everyone, this is a very special friend of mine. Miss Delia Delamour!’

  Delia gave a slight dip of her knee and two of the ladies did the same, but the others reached out their hands to touch hers; the men came across and gave her a short bow or nod of their heads and said they were delighted to meet her. Including Jenny there were seven of them, four women and three men, and she made the eighth in the party.

  ‘Miss Delamour!’ One of the gentlemen brought her a glass of champagne without waiting for the serving staff to bring a tray. ‘How is it we haven’t met before if you are a special friend of Miss Robinson?’

  Delia glanced at Jenny. What had she told them about her? Jenny just smiled and sipped from her glass.

  ‘I’ve lived in the south of England for the last ten years,’ she said huskily, ‘and only recently returned to my home area.’

  ‘So what have you been doing with yourself in the south of England?’ he asked merrily. ‘Not getting married, I hope? Our group are all single bodies, completely dedicated to the solitary state.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, Charles.’ Another man came to join them and pressed her hand. ‘After meeting Miss Delamour, I might well change my mind about that.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of either of them, Delia.’ Jenny waved them away and led her out of their hearing. ‘They’re only teasing. They are both dedicated bachelors and very good friends.’ She nodded her head significantly, and Delia smiled. She wasn’t quite as naïve as Jenny imagined. Living amongst theatricals she had learned much about personal idiosyncrasies and accepted people for what they were. Jenny might consider her friends to be a novelty, and they were certainly a complete contrast to how she had been brought up in her traditional home, but they were not unusual.

  Canapés were brought round and more champagne, which Delia refused; she must keep a clear head, at least until she had finished her performance. She slipped into the dining room and wandered over to the piano, where a single silver candlestick bore a flickering white candle, and, as if idly, she ran her fingers over the keys. She had decided she would begin with ‘Greensleeves’, a delightful tender melody that most people would know which would put them in pleasant humour.

  Ten minutes more and a gong sounded to alert the guests that supper was about to be served and they began to saunter towards the dining tables. Delia took her place, conveniently situated close to the piano. She waited for the hors d’oeuvre to be served and more wine poured and discreetly rose to her feet without anyone from her table immediately noticing.

  She began to sing the first verse of the romantic Tudor folk tale – Alas my love you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously – and guests turned round from the tables and then looked at each other, smiling at the unexpected treat. As she took a breath she heard a faint refrain from a violin. It came nearer, and when she turned her head there was Giles Dawson in his evening dress tails and crisp white shirt walking slowly towards her, with the violin tucked beneath his chin and a twinkle in his eyes. Smiling, she continued, her voice soaring with the accompaniment: Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight; Greensleeves was my heart of gold …

  Her second song was ‘Flow Gently Sweet Afton’ and again Giles accompanied her, playing softly in the background. After one more melody she took her bow, as did Giles, and then he bowed to her too and taking her hand led her back to her seat at the table. His own seat, which she hadn’t previously noticed was empty, was immediately opposite hers.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Dawson,’ she murmured across to him. ‘That was lovely. How did you know what I was going to sing?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘But I guessed it would be something that you’ve already performed at the theatre. Did you mind?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘I could have made a terrible mistake by playing without being asked. You might have been annoyed with me for pitching in.’

  ‘Not at all. I was actually more comfortable with the sound of music in the background.’

  They both ate their hors d’oeuvre and the soup was brought, after which more wine filled their glasses and the main course of pheasant and duck was served. Delia finished her
conversation with her neighbour, a gentleman who had introduced himself as Godfrey, and once more spoke across the table to Giles, murmuring that she would sing again before the dessert.

  ‘Are you planning on playing again, or was the idea just for the beginning of the evening?’

  He shook his head, leaning forward to whisper, ‘It’s your evening, Miss Delamour, not mine. I’d be quite happy to sit here and listen to you, as the other guests will.’ He paused. ‘But if you’d like me to join you it would be a very great pleasure.’

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and said, ‘I was planning to sing “Scarborough Fair”, changing “she” to “he” and so on, and then “The Last Rose of Summer”, finishing with “See Amid the Winter’s Snow” and “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” to remind us that tomorrow is Christmas Day. What do you think?’

  ‘Excellent,’ he pronounced. ‘All favourites of mine. Perhaps invite the guests to join in?’

  ‘Then – would you? Although it seems unfair when it’s your holiday time.’ She laughed. ‘The Maritime will be delighted that they’re getting two performers for the price of one!’

  ‘You are charging a fee?’ he whispered again.

  She nodded. ‘I said I would accept just a small fee and my bed and board, but I think I might waive the fee as I’ve been given such a lovely room. And an excellent dinner.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ he said, his voice still low but adamant. ‘Miss Delamour – Delia! You must believe in your worth. You are a professional performer and have a living to earn. They will expect to pay you just as they will expect to pay the staff serving dinner. I won’t require a fee, of course, because I asked them if I might accompany you as a surprise for you, and it will be a bonus for them if I continue playing; but sometimes,’ he added seriously, ‘by giving, you also receive in kind.’

  Delia took a sip of water. ‘You’re right, I know.’

  Jenny interrupted their conversation. ‘What schemes are the two of you planning? Your performance was delightful, incidentally. You make a splendid duet. You, Mr Dawson, are lost in the middle of an orchestra.’