Magnolia Square

by Margaret Pemberton

  She sat very quietly, her eyes on the open kitchen door and the corridor beyond that led through the house to the front door. She saw Leon open the door and Matthew charge into the hall, his cheeks flushed with excitement, a brown paper parcel clasped in his arms. Luke rushed to meet him, noisily demanding to know what the present was. Daisy wasn’t interested in his reply. Her eyes were on the man at the door. It wasn’t Great-Grandad Harvey. It was the man who drove his big motor car for him. He was carrying a box, a box so enormous his face could scarcely be seen peeping over the top of it.

  ‘I can’t help it if you think it inappropriate, mate,’ she heard him saying to Leon. ‘My job is simply to deliver it.’ Awkwardly he thrust the box, which looked to be very heavy, at Leon and turned on his heel, striding back to the motor car.

  ‘I’ve got a Wind in the Willows book and a train-set!’ Matthew was saying to a round-eyed Luke. ‘A big train-set! An enormous train-set! It’s so big it’s going to take up all the floor! It’s so big even a big boy like Billy will want to play with it!’

  With difficulty, Leon lowered the box to the floor. Daisy saw the look he gave her mummy. And she saw the look her mummy gave him back. A tight knot of anxiety began to form in her tummy. They didn’t like it that Great-Grandad Harvey had given Matthew the train-set. They didn’t want Matthew to have it. They wanted to give it back.

  ‘Open it! Open it!’ Luke was demanding, dancing up and down in impatience. ‘Isn’t jus’ Maffew’s train-set, Daddy! It’s mine as well! Maffew says it’s mine as well!’

  ‘And the book,’ Matthew added, shiny-eyed. ‘The book is for all of us.’

  ‘Did Great-Grandad Harvey say so?’ Leon asked, his voice so neutral Daisy wondered if anyone but herself knew how unhappy Matthew’s present had made him.

  Matthew hesitated. His grandad certainly hadn’t said the book was for everyone, but he must have meant it for everyone or else it wouldn’t have been fair.

  ‘Not ’xactly,’ he said, mindful of the need to be truthful, ‘but it is for Luke and Daisy as well. Truly.’

  Once again Kate and Leon looked at each other, and Daisy was aware that her mummy was just as unhappy about the present as her daddy. Daisy didn’t like it when her mummy was unhappy. Her mummy was the most special mummy in all the world. Long, long ago, so long ago that Daisy could barely remember it, she had had another mummy. She hadn’t called her Mummy, though. She had called her Ma. And she had been frightened of Ma. Ma had smacked her and hurt her and left her alone in the dark, hungry and cold. Her mummy-Kate never smacked her or hurt her. She hugged her and kissed her and played games with her, and when she put her to bed at night she did so with giggles and tickles and cuddles.

  Daisy was aware that, because her family had been killed in an air-raid, many people felt sorry for her. ‘Poor little mite,’ they said, ‘her ma and pa and gran crushed to death when their ’ouse was bombed and only ’er saved.’ Daisy had a secret. It was a secret she had never told to a living soul: she was glad the nasty Germans had bombed her house. Her pa had had a leather belt with a buckle on the end that he used to strap her with, and her gran had smelled of stale wee-wee and of other things that Daisy hadn’t known the name of, and she had never interfered when Pa had strapped her or Ma had locked her in the coal cellar. Even thinking about that long-ago, far-off time made goose-bumps come up on her arms. Being orphaned was the very best thing that had ever happened to her, for if she hadn’t been orphaned she wouldn’t now have Mummy-Kate and Daddy-Leon to care for her and love her.

  Every night, hugging her knees beneath the sheets of her crisply made bed, she promised God she would always, always be good, asking Him to never let anyone take her new mummy away from her, never, never, not ever!

  ‘Where are we going to put it, Daddy?’ Matthew was asking Leon in a fever of impatience. ‘Can we get it out of the box and see how big it really is? Can we fit the tracks together? There are two engines so me and Luke can have an engine each, can’t we?’

  Leon looked across at Kate. ‘We may as well, love,’ he said, in a tone of resignation Matthew didn’t understand. ‘There’ll only be another set of fresh problems if we don’t.’

  She nodded, equally unhappy at the gross extravagance of the present; of the way ownership of it could so easily set Matthew apart from Luke and Daisy; at the knowledge that it wasn’t a one-off present, but the forerunner of many, many more.

  ‘Blimey,’ Pru said as she joined them, the speedwell safely secured in Daisy’s scrapbook with tiny strips of see-through sticky paper. ‘What’s in the box? The crown jewels?’

  Later, when the bare bones of the train set had been set out on the floor of the bedroom that had once been Carl’s, and the children had finally been put to bed and Pru had gone out to meet Malcolm, Kate said as she put a pan of milk on the stove to boil, ‘I’ll speak to him about it, Leon. I’ll tell Mr Harvey we don’t want him giving Matthew such expensive presents.’

  Leon’s good-natured face was troubled. ‘He won’t like it,’ he said perceptively as he stuffed a change of socks and a rolled-up sou’wester into his tommy-bag ready for the morning. ‘He’ll say that as Matthew’s grandad it’s his privilege to give him presents and, as he can afford expensive presents, that those are the kind he’s going to give.’

  ‘And Luke and Daisy?’ Kate asked, spooning cocoa into two mugs. ‘How are they supposed to feel? Matthew made it all right for them this time by saying the train-set and the book were for all of them, but you and I know that they weren’t. And what’s going to happen when Mr Harvey singles Matthew out in much bigger ways?’

  Leon could tell by the tone of Kate’s voice that her question wasn’t an idle one, and that there was something she was working towards telling him, and that it was something he wasn’t going to like one little bit. He crooked an eyebrow and waited.

  Kate bit the corner of her lip. She had to tell him about Mr Harvey’s plans for Matthew’s education some time and it might as well be now. ‘School,’ she said at last. ‘Mr Harvey wants Matthew to go to the same schools Toby went to.’

  Leon pulled the drawstring tight around the top of his tommy-bag. Kate hadn’t said that the schools in question were fee-paying schools, but she hadn’t had to, it went without question. And fee-paying schools were schools for nobs’ sons, not for working-class boys. ‘It won’t work,’ he said, his face taut as he pushed the tommy-bag to one side. ‘It’s bad enough now, when it’s only presents one child is getting that the others aren’t, but to have one child going off to prep school, all togged up in a nifty uniform and mixing with children whose fathers are bankers and lawyers and doctors and diplomats, while the other two go to Blackheath and Kidbrooke where everyone’s dad works on the river or in a factory—’ He broke off, seeing in his mind’s eye what would happen and not wanting to put what he saw into words.

  As Kate poured boiling milk on to the cocoa, her hand was unsteady. ‘It might work,’ she said, willing him to understand, knowing all the problems there would be if, on this all-important issue, they were in disagreement. ‘It might have to work.’ She put down the pan and turned once again to face him. ‘It’s what Toby would have wanted for Matthew,’ she said simply. ‘And it’s education, Leon. How can we refuse Matthew the chance of a first-class education?’ She saw the misery in his eyes, and her heart went out to him. She knew all the things he was afraid of, because she was afraid of them too. She was afraid that a public school education would result in Matthew growing away from them as he grew up; that he would begin to become slightly ashamed of them, embarrassed not only by Leon’s skin colour but by his occupation as well.

  She put her fears behind her, saying starkly, ‘Toby was never a snob, Leon. He was the nicest person you could ever wish to meet. And no matter what type of education Matthew receives, he’s going to grow up like him. How could he fail to, when he’s got you and me to teach him what the real values in life are?’ She walked swiftly towards him, slipping her arms up and
around his neck, her eyes pleading with him to understand. ‘We can say “no” to expensive presents but we can’t say “no” to an education that will enable Matthew to go to university and to become whatever he wants to become. It wouldn’t be fair.’ She remembered Matthew’s stout avowal that the presents he had been given were for Luke and Daisy as well. ‘And as Matthew is very hot on fairness, we must be as well.’

  His arms closed around her. She was right about the fairness bit. It was going to be difficult, though. It was going to be very, very difficult. ‘I’ll be glad when the adoption is finalized,’ he said, the words coming from the bottom of his heart. ‘At least then I’ll be in a proper position to tell Joss Harvey where we’d like him to draw the line in indulging Matthew.’

  He rocked her against him, feeling her heart beating against his, smelling the fragrance of her skin and her hair. The children were in bed asleep. Pru was at the cinema with Malcolm. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said, the honey-dark timbre of his voice deepening in passionate need. ‘Let me show you how much I love you, sweetheart. Let me show you how much I will always love you.’

  ‘I love living with the Emmersons,’ Pru said as, with a royal blue beret crammed down low over her ears and a matching scarf snug around the throat of her buttoned-up coat, she walked with Malcolm up gas-lit Magnolia Hill. It was nearly ten o’clock at night, and it was the first time she had ever been out so late. Her father would never have allowed it, but Kate had pointed out to Leon that the cinema didn’t turn out till nine-thirty, and that if Pru and Malcolm were to see the big film through until the end, ten o’clock would be the very soonest Malcolm would be able to bring her home.

  ‘I love it so much, I’m dreading the thought of Mum coming back home,’ Pru continued, her hand tucked comfily in the crook of Malcolm’s arm. ‘Not that she wants to come back. She doesn’t. But she can’t stay away for ever, can she? And when she does come back, I’ll have to move back home. She can’t manage Dad on her own. He bullies her, and instead of standing up to him she lets him see that he frightens her and that only makes him worse.’

  Malcolm looked down at the slightly built figure hugging his arm. In the foggy darkness her heart-shaped face was resolute. She, he knew, would never allow herself to be bullied by Wilfred. Or by anyone else either. She was still only seventeen and as he thought of all she had endured, cooped up in number ten day after day in order to shield her mother from her father’s unbalanced temper and lunatic ravings, his heart felt as if it were tightening within his chest. He wouldn’t allow her to do it again, by God he wouldn’t! He would see to it that neither she nor her mother set foot across the threshold of number ten again unless they did so willingly.

  They were in Magnolia Square now, nearly at the Emmersons’ gate. He stopped walking, drawing her round to face him. ‘I think,’ he said, looking down into a face that had been prettified by a borrowing of Kate’s powder and rose-coloured lipstick, and feeling his heart tighten even further, ‘I think it’s about time your mum met mine.’

  Pru’s eyes widened. Malcolm’s mum was a cut above her own mother. She was a magistrate and sat on committees and had a woman in to do her cleaning. ‘I’m not sure they’d have too much in common . . .’ she began doubtfully.

  ‘Of course they would. They both know what it’s like to be married to men who are fruit-cakes,’ Malcolm said patiently, a plan beginning to form in the back of his mind. A plan that, if it worked, would free Pru and her mother from Wilfred for ever. He tried to concentrate on it, but it was hard. The lipstick Pru had borrowed made her lips look very full and very soft. Her hand was in his. There was no sound other than the hissing of the nearest gas-lamp. She was seventeen. He was twenty-eight. He wasn’t old enough to be her father, but he was a substantial number of years her senior. She was far too young for him to play fast and loose with. But what if he wasn’t playing fast and loose? What if he was very, very serious?

  He felt a tightening of his stomach muscles. If he was, then there was something she had to be told. Something he hadn’t voluntarily ever told anyone, ever before. ‘Pru?’ The tone of his voice had changed, and there was something in it, and something in the way that he was now looking at her, that held every single atom of her attention. ‘Have you ever wondered why I was never conscripted?’ he asked quietly, letting his hands fall and plunging them deep within his trouser pockets.

  Pru blinked. She had, many times, but her anxieties over her father’s mental breakdown and her mother’s well-being had ensured it was a mystery that had never become all-important.

  He chewed the corner of his lip, wondering how best to tell her. He didn’t want to frighten her. And he knew now, beyond any shadow of doubt, that he didn’t want to lose her.

  ‘Yes?’ she prompted, bewildered by the sudden change in him, remembering the many rumours there had been about just why he had never served in the Army or the Navy or the Air Force. She felt a shaft of incredulous anticipation. Perhaps, after all, Miriam Jennings had been right. Perhaps the desk job Malcolm was so quiet about was located in Whitehall. Perhaps he had been an intelligence officer of some kind! Perhaps he still was!

  He said, still making no move towards her, ‘Do you know what epilepsy is, Pru?’

  Her eyes shot wide. Why on earth had he changed the subject of their conversation yet again? First they had been talking about her mother meeting his, then he had begun to tell her why he had never been conscripted, and now he was talking about epilepsy! ‘Only that it’s not very nice, and people who suffer with it fall down and have fits and froth at the mouth,’ she said, wondering why on earth he wanted to know.

  ‘They don’t always,’ he said, wondering if she would believe him.

  Her eyes met his trustingly as she waited for him to get to the point. Epilepsy didn’t interest her. What did interest her was why he had never been conscripted. There had been lots and lots of reserved occupations, of course, but most of them had been held by men who were middle-aged. ‘Yes?’ she prompted.

  He lifted his shoulders in a slight, almost helpless shrug. ‘I’m epileptic,’ he said simply, knowing she would have to accept that stark truth before he could begin reassuring her by explaining to her exactly just what kind of an epileptic he was.

  She stared at him, not, at first, understanding. When he didn’t qualify his statement, didn’t shrug it off as some kind of joke, she said in confusion, ‘But how can you be? You’re not . . . you’re not . . .’ Hot, embarrassed colour stained her cheeks.

  Malcolm knew exactly what it was she had been about to say. He dug his clenched hands even deeper into his pockets. ‘Epileptics aren’t freaks, Pru,’ he said, keeping control over his voice with difficulty. ‘They’re not sub-normal. They don’t dribble at the mouth. They don’t look peculiar.’

  The colour in her cheeks deepened. Had it been so obvious what she had thought? And how must Malcolm now be feeling, having read her mind so clearly?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Only it never occurred to me . . . I mean, you look so fit . . . I always thought you hadn’t served in the services because . . . because. . .’

  ‘Because I was a conscientious objector?’ he said, finishing her sentence for her once again, knowing that his church work had led more than her to come to the same puzzled conclusion.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I thought . . . Miriam Jennings once said . . .’ Despite the awfulness of him suffering from something which caused him so much misery, Pru couldn’t help seeing the farcical side of the situation. ‘We thought you were an intelligence officer,’ she said, something very like laughter bubbling up in her throat.

  Malcolm stared at her in incredulity. ‘An intelligence officer? What in God’s name would an intelligence officer have been doing in Blackheath and Lewisham for the duration of the war?’ Over and above his incredulity was a relief so vast he felt as if it were swamping him. Pru wouldn’t be seeing the funny side of the situation if his confession had frightened or disgusted her
. She was going to take his epilepsy in her stride, just as she took everything else in her stride. And it wasn’t as if he suffered grand mal attacks. He never lost consciousness. He never suffered anything more than sick, disorientating giddyness. The Army medical board’s fear had been, of course, that the nature of his attacks would change. That his petit mal, usually only suffered by children, would develop into grand mal, and that he would suffer a disabling attack without warning. Well, he had never done so, and even if he did do so, Pru would regard him no differently than she regarded him now.

  ‘Pru?’ He took his hands out of his pockets, wondering why the hell he was suddenly so nervous. He was twenty-eight years old. He’d kissed girls before. But not a girl he now knew beyond any shadow of doubt he was in love with; a girl he would love for the rest of his life; a girl he intended making his wife. ‘Pru? Would you mind if I kissed you?’ he asked hoarsely and then, without waiting for her reply, he drew her gently into the circle of his arms and in the gas-lamp’s golden glow, lowered his head to hers.

  ‘What a lovely little bungalow,’ Cecily Lewis was saying as she sat in state on a rather shabby sofa in Doris’s sister’s front room. ‘I’ve always been partial to bungalows. You would have thought that Frank, being a flat-earther, would have been partial to them, too, but I could never get him to move into one. Our house was always too big for us, and now there’s only me and Malcolm rattling around in it, it seems vast.’