The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  The light in the hallway was dim but Edward saw that there was a letter for him, from Lizzie. He’d read it in bed. His bare little room was cold and there was nothing to eat. He drew the faded curtains, placed his good clothes carefully over the back of a chair for tomorrow and climbed between the icy sheets.

  He tore at the envelope. She usually wrote pages of news to him and this was a single sheet.

  Dearest Edward,

  What we have done is wicked and evil. It would be the death of our mother if she were to discover our shameful secret. You must know that we can never be alone together again. The guilt is mine alone and I pray that you will not blame yourself for our wrongdoing. I cannot see you until I have recovered my self-respect. I am ill, Edward. I am sick at heart and so ashamed.

  I am going away. When you receive this letter I shall not be living at Suttonford. I do not love you, Edward. I want to be free of you.

  This is the most difficult letter I have ever written. Try to forgive me,

  Lizzie

  Edward leaned his head back against the pillow and let his tears roll down his face unchecked. His world was crumbling around him. The two people he loved most were gone from him.

  Lizzie said she did not love him. She was trying to tell herself that their love was shameful and wrong. Did she really believe it? Was it really making her ill? He knew in his heart that she’d known what she had written was not true. But he knew she would not have written it unless she meant him to believe it. Their love was no lie.

  And Oliver? Oliver had been living a lie for years. ‘I’ve needed you so often, love,’ he’d said to the singer. Oliver didn’t even know what the word meant. Had he never known love, that he mistook a romp with an actress for love? And what of the story Mother had always told them, of Oliver and Florence meeting and falling in love so young and of their having to wait until the Oldfields approved. Was that all lies?

  And what was the truth to Oliver? He and Lizzie had been lied to by Oliver for years. They did not know who their father was. And nobody cared to tell them. Truth was unimportant to Oliver.

  Well, it didn’t matter now. None of it mattered. They could keep their cheap flirtations, their disgusting little secrets. They could keep their stinking way of life. Heaven alone knew what went on at Suttonford. They probably don’t even know themselves who fathered whom, he thought bitterly. He’d not speak to Oliver again, nor would he go to the house in Southport where his stepbrother could walk in at any time. Mother would come down here to visit him and they could go to a theatre on his twenty-first birthday. He’d write to her.

  Tomorrow he’d move to new rooms, in case Oliver came looking for him. He’d find somewhere where he’d get peace of mind. Nothing mattered now, except that he become a doctor.

  Oliver tried to comfort Celia. ‘I’m sorry. They must have given Edward the wrong message at the lodge. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see him tomorrow and explain.’

  ‘There’s no point in explaining. Edward understood it all,’ Celia said. She went ahead of him into the sittingroom and looked down at the table. ‘Pour me a whisky, will you? The poor boy must have been hungry. He’s eaten most of the supper.’

  Oliver poured whiskies for them both. He needed one. Edward’s finding them together was shocking. He had seen the hurt, the shock in Edward’s face and would have given anything to wipe it away. The boy was an idealist and would take it badly.

  ‘I’ll send for more food,’ he said as he looked at the pathetic remains of their supper. Edward had tried to be strictly fair, he saw, not taking more than half of anything. He could picture him, ravenous as he always was, not wanting to appear greedy; trying to hold back his appetite until Oliver joined him and, finally, having to eat.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ Celia said and Oliver saw that she, too, had been shaken by the encounter. Straight-backed and rigid, she drank the neat spirit down fast and held out her glass for more.

  Oliver refilled it and sat beside her on the sofa. ‘We’re both upset about this,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you back to your hotel and we can eat there.’ He put an arm around her shoulders but she did not respond to the pressure. ‘Try to forget it.’ He spoke gently, to console her.

  ‘Oliver, I’m sorry, but I can’t forget something like this. It has made everything clear to me. You … Me … And seeing Edward like that. I felt cheap.’ She pulled away from him and stood with her back to the fire. ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’

  Oliver rose and took her hands in his but she withdrew them sharply and he saw that her black eyes held a warning. ‘Because of Edward? His finding us together?’

  ‘Partly that. Mainly because I can’t take our affair lightly any longer.’

  ‘I don’t take it lightly. I never have. You know that,’ Oliver said softly. ‘I told you from the start that I was not a philanderer. The only thing I can’t ask you to do is to marry me.’

  ‘I know.’ She spoke in a calm tone and averted her eyes. ‘The thing is – I don’t want anything less now. And I can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Then live as my mistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a place for us here, in London.’

  ‘No.’ Celia went to the hall where she picked up her fur coat. ‘Help me on with this, will you?’

  Oliver held out the fur and picked up his own coat. Then he held her wrist; made her look at him; made her see that he could not give her up easily. ‘You can’t go out of my life like this. If you say you take it seriously, you must give me an explanation. A better one than having Edward stumble upon us.’

  ‘Oliver, let me tell you something.’ She went back into the room and sat at the fire, motioning to him to sit opposite. She leaned forward and he saw that the flames from the fire reflected, sparkling and glinting in her dark, passionate eyes.

  ‘I love you and I want to be married. And these facts can’t be reconciled. I don’t mean to perform on a stage for ever. I want to make enough money in a few years of singing that will keep me for the rest of my life.’ She poured herself a glass of wine from Edward’s leftovers.

  ‘I want children, my dear Oliver, and I want a home. And I mean to have them. And I mean to be there, in my home, with my husband and children, not in a pretty parlour with a man who calls when he’s in town.’

  She had always been forthright. There was nothing of the coquette in Celia. ‘Would you …?’ he started to say.

  She shook her head and went on. ‘I won’t settle for less, Oliver. I’ve wanted it for too long; the ordinary home life I never had. I must try to remember you as a diversion, an aberration. I should have run when I met you, not fallen into your lap.’

  Oliver looked at her with affection. ‘I wanted all that, too,’ he said. ‘I wanted exactly what you do. It’s not easy. It takes two to want it.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been so important or you’d have seen that you got it,’ she said, an edge of impatience in her voice. ‘You couldn’t have wanted a normal family life. You’d never have married Florence and abandoned your son to Dolly, if you had.’

  Oliver felt ice running in his veins. ‘Abandon my son?’ he said. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘Edward. Your son, Edward!’ she snapped. ‘Your son by Rosie Hadfield.’

  ‘How long have you known this?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Celia said in exasperation. ‘It’s as plain as if you’d written it on the wall in letters of fire. Edward is your son. You don’t behave towards him like the brother you claim to be. If he were your younger brother you’d have a different attitude towards him.’

  ‘Is it so obvious?’ He was stunned by her perception.

  ‘Not to anyone else,’ she told him. ‘I see things, I don’t need to be told. If what I see and what I’m told don’t coincide, then I believe my eyes.’

  The secret he’d kept for twenty-one years was out. She’d seen through it. There was no point in denying it. ‘What else have you seen?’

  ‘Edward and Liz
zie are lovers,’ she replied.

  She was sincere. She wasn’t trying to make him angry. But she had to be wrong. This time her powers had deserted her. Please, God, she had to be wrong. If she was right? The closeness of Lizzie and Edward – the time he’d found them in the garden, lying on the grass, hand in hand. The hours they spent in their sitting room. Their endless questions to him about one another when they were apart. And now Lizzie had run away. Why? Why unless she and Edward …? Celia was wrong. ‘You are wrong, Celia,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. Poor, poor Edward,’ Celia said. ‘Let me ask you something, Oliver. If you wanted your family life why didn’t you share with Edward the roof you’d put over his head?’

  ‘It was impossible.’

  ‘Because you wanted to marry Florence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you didn’t want your home life enough, for Florence and her sort wouldn’t know what it is.’

  ‘And do you? You were brought up by your grandparents. Do you know how to make a home?’

  ‘Yes. Your way isn’t mine. I couldn’t hand my children to governesses, tutors and schools to have them knocked into shape. I could make a better job of it myself. When my children need a helping hand, I want that hand to be mine. I need to live close to those I love, to reach out and touch them.’

  Oliver held her hand to comfort her. She had wanted him. She had wanted him to marry her and he must disappoint her. ‘I hope you get what you want, Celia. I can’t give it to you. And I can’t think where I went wrong. Those were my dreams, as well.’

  ‘You sold yourself, Oliver. You wanted the other things too much. You wanted Suttonford and to get it you sold yourself at a bargain price. You made a loss.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Oliver smiled at her, at her anger against him; he knew now that it wasn’t true, that he had always loved Florence. ‘I had to take Suttonford to get Florence. Not the other way round. Where will you find the husband to share your dream, Celia?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not short of admirers,’ she replied in her unabashed way. ‘When I’ve rid myself of affection for you I’ll accept invitations.’

  ‘Can you do that? Rid yourself of affection for me?’

  ‘Yes. In time I shall.’ She pulled on her gloves. ‘I’m going to America soon and I’ll not be back in London until September. That will give me a good start.’

  He took her back to her hotel and they exchanged polite, respectful kisses at the door before Oliver returned to his suite.

  He no longer needed her. It had gone. In her very presence it had left him. And it had left him feeling empty and strangely clear-headed. Perhaps he would desire her from time to time but he’d know the desire for what it was. But he would never have another affair. This time it was the girl who had been hurt the most. He’d try to establish a proper understanding between himself and his sons and put all thoughts of passion behind him.

  There was a note from Edward at the desk. The boy must have paid a messenger to bring it round for him. It did not even commence with Dear Oliver; it simply said, ‘I shall not be able to see you tomorrow evening. I am moving to another area of the city and will send the new address to Mother where you can find it if you need to contact me on any urgent matter.’

  Oliver knew that he must let Edward alone for the time being. After time had dulled the shock, he’d understand and come back to him. He left the hotel the following morning and took the early train to Middlefield. He meant to take Albert’s advice and bring James into the business.

  The Smallwood family was gathered in the living-room. Ellen Smallwood put her head round the open kitchen door. ‘Put your books away, Alice. Lay the supper table, there’s a girl,’ she called. ‘Supper’s nearly ready. Call James.’

  Alice stacked her schoolbooks quickly and placed them on the dresser, opened a drawer and brought out a starched waist apron of calico, which she tied firmly around her tiny waist over the brown school dress.

  ‘Sarah. You do the fire and help Mum,’ she said to her young sister who was frowning, in the gaslight, over an embroidery. ‘I’ll call James.’

  ‘Dad,’ Mrs Smallwood called again, ‘will you go over to The Pheasant for a jug of beer for you and James?’

  Sam Smallwood roused himself and reached for the overcoat he’d pegged behind the back door ten minutes ago when he came home from work. ‘Aye. All right, Ellen. I’ll get enough for us all, shall I?’

  Alice spread a tablecloth over the big table and quickly laid cork mats, knives and forks, spoons and tankards. She took a peep at her reflection in the sideboard mirror when Sarah’s back was turned, and bit her lips with her small, even teeth, making them shine redder before she opened the door at the back of the room and called up the stairs.

  ‘Jay-ms! Supper’s nearly ready. Coom on down.’ She lingered at the foot of the polished staircase, her hand on the turned post. She’d practised the pose before the long mirror in the room she shared with her sister and she knew it set off her waist.

  James came slowly down the stairs. He’d washed and shaved; he always shaved in the evening, to look his best at supper, when Alice sat opposite. She’d taken the pins out of her hair again; she’d done so every evening since he told her it was ‘fetching’. James kept his bold, admiring eyes on her until she blushed and looked away.

  He ran down the last few stairs, snatched at her apron tie and tugged. It came loose and he hid it behind his back. Now she must wait there until he chose to give it back to her.

  ‘Give it to me,’ she laughed as she tried to retrieve it, blushes forgotten, bobbing this way and that, blonde hair dancing around at the level of his chest.

  He bent at the knees, bringing his face to a level with hers. ‘Give me a kiss for it,’ he teased as he stroked her hair with his free hand.

  ‘Someone might see—’ she whispered.

  He puckered his lips, and Alice planted a kiss on them, but the palms of her hands were flat against his chest, pushing him away so he could not pull her close.

  ‘Do you miss me when I go out at night, Alice?’ he asked, real anxiety giving the lie to the carefree look on his face.

  ‘You know I do,’ she told him.

  ‘Will you come down tonight when they’re all in bed?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said, putting her fingers to her lips as if to tell him not to let Sarah overhear. Then she added in a louder tone, ‘I’m going to lay the table now. Are you ready?’

  She held out her hand for the apron and he gave an exaggerated sigh as he handed it over and let her go ahead of him into the living room. He stepped down into the warm, busy kitchen, familiar now with the family routines. ‘What’s for supper, Mrs Smallwood?’ he said.

  ‘Vegetable broth, lamb chops with peas and mash and a lemon sponge,’ Mrs Smallwood replied. ‘Get out of the kitchen, James, you’re in my way, love.’ She gave the soup tureen to him. ‘Carry that in, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m starving. I’ve done a lot of work today.’

  ‘Have you? What have you been doing?’ Alice asked.

  ‘I’m out of the weaving shed now. I’ve been helping the engineers set up machines all day,’ he told them proudly. He loved the evenings around the table. He had eaten with the family from the very first, after he’d arrived back from the day he could now smile about; his disastrous first day at the mill.

  He felt like one of the family. They treated him as such, never making him dine with the other guests, though none but Sarah had an inkling of the growing passion he and Alice had for one another. He had grown up, he knew he had. He liked working for a living; liked being treated as an equal by Sam Smallwood and he wanted, above all, to please Alice.

  He found that he could not look at her without wanting to kiss her. He dared not think about her at work or his concentration went. And when he was with her he felt easy and very, extraordinarily, happy.

  Even last night’s fiasco couldn’t dampen his spir
its. The meeting in the mill yard had broken up when they’d noticed the man sitting on the wall, taking down names in a little blue-bound notebook.

  The back door opened, letting in a draught of cold air as Sam Smallwood entered, carrying two tall china jugs of ale, which he placed on the sideboard. James took his overcoat from him and hung it behind the door while Alice’s father warmed his cold hands at the blazing fire.

  ‘It was one of Wainwright and Billington’s men taking names last night, James. There’s been an informer at the last three meetings. This one had his cap pulled down so we wouldn’t recognise him but I heard it from Mr Billington this morning. Two union men were arrested.’ Sam Smallwood’s face was stern. ‘They’ll have to let them go. They arrested them for criminal damage but there was nothing broken.’

  ‘What will happen to their jobs, Sam? Can Wainwright and Billington sack them without causing trouble?’ James asked. He felt responsible. His father must be behind this.

  ‘They might get the sack. They could get it for less than that but I don’t think they will. They’ll lay them off until after the case is heard, if it goes to court, of course,’ Sam said. ‘They’ll want to make an example of them. They’ll be saying, “Look what happens if you join the union; loss of pay, no promotion.” Most of them are family men and the poor devils will be too scared to risk their jobs, not knowing whose name is in the book.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel as if it’s my fault,’ James said.

  ‘It’s not your fault. I’ll have a word with your father when he comes back. I’ll see if we can settle it between us.’ Sam smiled at him. ‘Forget it for now. Wainwright and Billington aren’t unreasonable.’

  James took his usual place, opposite Alice, and tried to catch her looking across at him. There was the usual rush of talk with everyone giving what Mrs Smallwood called ‘their two-pennoth of opinion on everything’.

  He loved to watch Alice. She didn’t pick at her food as the ladies of Suttonford did; pushing it around their plates, occasionally lifting a morsel to their lips. Alice had a good appetite.