A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Dinner-times? You’ll be fed up of me.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Maybe on my way home at night, then.’

  They turned and resumed walking.

  ‘Well, seeing me will be a change from walking back with Ned every night.’

  ‘Oh, poor old Ned,’ she sighed. ‘He asked Ramona to go out with him tonight.’

  ‘I imagine she turned him down?’

  ‘Yes and I’m glad. He’s not fit for the likes of Ramona. She’d have him wrapped round her little finger. She’d make mincemeat out of him.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she is a bit wily.’

  ‘He’s still resentful over you, you know, Tom.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. But he’ll get over it.’

  ‘You know what’s peeving him? The fact that you had five guineas as payment for photos of him from the Dudley Herald. That Julian Oakley told him.’

  ‘Julian Oakley should have more sense than betray a business arrangement. But that’s typical of a newspaper reporter.’

  ‘All the same, Ned thought he should be entitled to the money as he and his flying machine were the subject matter. He reckons the money could go towards an engine.’

  ‘Well, he’s not entitled to it, Clover,’ Tom said evenly. ‘The copyright of the photos belongs to me. They’re my property to do with as I see fit. Besides, I’m a photographer and I have a living to make, the same as everybody else.’

  ‘’Course you do.’

  ‘If, on the other hand, he had commissioned me to take the photos, that would be a different matter. Then the copyright would belong to him. But he didn’t commission me. And I asked his permission before I set up my camera, if you remember.’

  ‘So you did. I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘Still, I sympathise with him, trying to build and develop that thing with no financial backing. It’s almost an impossibility without money, I would’ve thought.’

  By the time they had walked back to Hall Street, it was dusk. As if by a common consent that was unspoken, they ambled back towards the studio. Outside, by that same unspoken, mutual consent they stopped as they reached it.

  ‘I’ve got a teapot and a kettle in the studio,’ Tom said. ‘We could make a brew here if you’re thirsty.’

  She smiled serenely. ‘If you like. I could murder a cup of tea.’

  Once inside, Tom locked the door behind him and they entered the studio. The grey half-light of dusk was permeating the room through the huge expanse of windows. Outside, Clover could just make out the high wall around the back yard that was topped with cemented-on broken bottles to deter trespassers. And she could just discern the bearskin rug on the floor.

  She turned to Tom and he took her in his arms.

  He bent his head and kissed her, long and lingering. He had been longing to kiss her ever since he’d called for her. Almost every time she’d spoken he’d watched her lips moving sensuously. Whenever she’d smiled he’d ached to feel her soft, sweet breath on his face. He’d longed to taste her again. Now, here she was, once more in his arms, once more in his studio where they’d made love for the first time only a couple of days ago. He had not been quite the same since. He had never known contentment like he had found with this girl.

  ‘I want you, Clover.’

  In the dimness, he could just discern the glimmer of love in her eyes as she looked up into his. Again they kissed, probing, deep, passionate.

  ‘You make me so happy,’ he said when they had broken off. ‘If I just knew how to unfasten these buttons of yours my happiness would be complete. They’re so tiny.’

  She chuckled. ‘I’ll do it.’

  He stripped off, watching her undress as he did so. He could just discern her pale limbs, slender, beautifully formed, ultimately feminine. He grabbed the two cushions which they used as pillows and placed them at one end of the bearskin rug. They lay down together and clasped each other in a passionate embrace that anticipated the pleasure they were about to give each other.

  For more than an hour they made love.

  After it, Clover smiled to herself.

  After it, she felt content, sated. Now she understood what all the fuss was about.

  After it, when she tried to stand to put the kettle on for the cup of tea they had made their excuse, she felt weak at the knees.

  In September 1907 Norway’s eminent composer Grieg died in Bergen at the age of sixty-four. Two days later, the Lusitania left Liverpool to embark on her maiden voyage to New York and arrived on the thirteenth after crossing the Atlantic in a record five days and fifty-four minutes. However, for Ned Brisco, the most significant piece of news that month came from France where Louis Bleriot flew 184 metres in his powered, tandem wing monoplane, Libellule, before crash-landing.

  Spurred on by Bleriot’s success, Ned stepped up his own efforts. He had made some minor modifications to the Gull and had been once more to Rough Hill with Amos and Clover one sunny Sunday morning in early September, where he had become airborne again, but had flown no further than the last attempt. Ned was becoming frustrated. Before he could consider installing an engine into the Gull, he desperately needed to practise taking off and landing, as well as actually controlling the machine in flight. He needed to master pitch and yaw and roll. But he was getting no practice. Once he had landed at the bottom of Rough Hill it was a two-mile round trip to return to the top to have another go; and even then, the Gull would have to be dismantled and reassembled. What he needed was a good stretch of open, level ground and some device that would tow him into the air – and tow him back again from wherever he landed. Ned was airing his ideas to Joseph Mantle, whose stables he utilised at Springfield House.

  ‘I can see your problem, Ned,’ Joseph said sympathetically and rubbed his chin.

  ‘Oh, Mr Mantle, if you could come up with something, I wouldn’t half appreciate it,’ Ned replied.

  ‘It’s just possible I might know somebody who could help you out. No promises at this stage, Ned lad.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me more?’

  ‘Patience, Ned, patience. Listen, you’ve built this wonderful little biplane. Do you think you could build a trailer of some sort to transport it on?’

  ‘I reckon so, Mr Mantle. I could get hold of some wood and a couple of wheels. That wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Good lad. You’ll need to do that anyway, whatever happens. By the way, Ned – any luck with sponsorship? Has anybody offered to help you out with the cost of an engine?’

  Ned shook his head. ‘Nobody, Mr Mantle.’

  ‘Nobody? I’m amazed that nobody can see the potential in what you’re doing. After that lovely write-up you had in the Herald as well. And the photos.’

  Ned shrugged resignedly. ‘It’s the way of the world, Mr Mantle. If I was a somebody, it’d be a different tale, I daresay.’

  ‘And have you got your eye on an engine, Ned?’

  ‘There’s a French engineer called Levavasseur. He builds engines for aeroplanes. He’s developed a sixteen-cylinder one called the Antoinette. A fifty-horsepower job. God knows how much it would cost, though. A fortune, I imagine.’

  ‘Well, I imagine somebody will come up with the money, Ned, to help you out. But I’d have thought some firm around here building motor car engines would be able to adapt one for you quite cheap.’

  Ned shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll end up building my own. I could do it, I reckon. Anyway, there’s no rush as I see it, Mr Mantle. Nobody yet has designed a decent airscrew. The ones they use now ain’t very efficient. I reckon that’s where I should be concentrating me efforts now – designing a decent airscrew.’

  Chapter 9

  On 21st September, a Saturday, Clover arrived from work looking delightfully spruce. It was such a change to go to work dressed well and to return from it all clean and tidy. She had been working at Cook’s for a while now and she loved it. She liked the people she worked with and always had a smile for the folk she served. On her way home
from work she would invariably call into Tom’s studio and, usually, his kettle was bubbling away on the portable gas ring that adorned his tiny scullery and he would brew her some tea. Sometimes, they would forego the tea and make love, especially if they were not due to meet that night, or if they had been invited somewhere that would leave no time later for such tenderness and intimacy. This particular evening was one such.

  When Clover reached home, she appeared in the taproom where Ramona and her father were busy. Jake smiled and asked if she wanted a drink.

  ‘I’d love a glass of lemonade.’

  ‘Help yourself, Clover, my wench.’

  ‘Is it still warm out?’ Ramona asked, sidling up while Clover poured herself a drink.

  ‘Not really. There’s a bit of a nip in the air now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have credited it, looking at you, Clover. You look all flushed.’

  ‘Do I?’ Clover knew it was not just the exertion of walking. Making love with Tom at the studio on her way home, with ever-increasing finesse, expertise and zest, had something to do with it.

  ‘Now you’re blushing,’ Ramona proclaimed, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘I can tell a blush from a flush.’ She chuckled. ‘What’ve you been up to?’

  Clover smiled coyly and sipped the lemonade, unable to look Ramona in the eye.

  ‘Come on, tell me,’ the younger girl persisted, her voice still low.

  Clover shook her head, still wearing her abashed smile.

  Ramona measured out a half gill of whisky for somebody and poured it into a glass. ‘I bet you’ve just seen Tom…’

  Clover’s eyes met her stepsister’s and the expression in them gave it all away. She nodded and sipped her drink again self-consciously.

  ‘You dark horse! You mean you—?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing, Ramona…’ Her smile this time turned into a little chuckle.

  ‘You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. So, he’s made a woman of you after all…’

  Clover nodded again and bit her bottom lip as she smiled reticently.

  ‘Tell me about it then.’

  ‘You don’t expect me to give a blow-by-blow account, do you? All right, Tom and I have passed the kissing stage. It’s enough that you know that. You’re not really entitled to know that much, but you wheedled it out of me.’

  They ceased talking while Jake came within earshot at the beer pumps.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Ramona persisted when Jake had moved away.

  ‘Oh, Ramona…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Can a duck swim?’

  Ramona chuckled. ‘Well, well. I take it you haven’t been doing it in the churchyard across the graves. Knowing you, Clover, you wouldn’t want the dirty granite stones next to you or the grit scratching your bare bum. So where’ve you been doing it?’

  ‘Where d’you think?’

  ‘His house?’

  ‘With his family there?’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘God! You don’t give up, do you?’ she replied with faked exasperation. ‘At his studio, if you must know.’

  Ramona gave a slow nod of realisation. ‘Blimey, I was a bit stupid not working that one out. So when was the first time?’

  ‘Oh, Ramona, you want to know the top and bottom of Meg’s backside. Let me have some secrets.’

  ‘Has he got a bed there?’

  ‘No, ’course not.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Oh, Clover. You have to tell me. I’ll tell you all my secrets.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know them.’

  ‘I promise I’ll tell you all my secrets, Clover…’

  Clover rolled her eyes in mock despair. Ramona was just too persistent to be shaken off. ‘If you must know, he has a lovely bearskin rug.’

  The two girls giggled at that.

  ‘Haven’t you got some boy lined up now, Ramona? It’s time you had. Sammy’s been gone a while now.’

  ‘There’s one or two…As a matter of fact there’s a chap who comes in here some nights. I’m seeing him later. He says he’s going to take me out.’

  Mary Ann thrust her solemn face round the hatch from the passage. ‘Oh, you’m back, our Clover. The tea will be ready in five minutes and, as usual, there’s no bugger about. Will you go and call Elijah for me?’ She closed the hatch and was gone back to the scullery.

  Ramona’s heart suddenly lurched. Uncle Elijah would be in the brewery. He was bound to be taking a bath in there. She’d tried to catch a glimpse of him a few times over the last few weeks but had been foiled by interceding events and people. Right now, though, she had the strangest feeling she might be lucky.

  ‘Shall I go?’ she suggested casually to Clover. ‘You stay here and finish your drink. I could do with a breath of fresh air after all the smoke in here. And Job Smith should be here to serve in a minute or two.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried out.

  From the passage she stepped onto the pavement outside and turned right up the side of the Jolly Collier, into the yard, passing the scullery window where Mary Ann was preparing their meal. Once on the yard she tiptoed towards the brewery. The light of that September evening was quickly fading. The sky above was a rich, royal blue fused with red and orange in the west and the first of the brightest stars were moving up the eastern sky. The door to the brewery was closed. Gently, Ramona depressed the thumb plate on the latch and opened it soundlessly, a move she had already practised several times in readiness for such a moment as this.

  Elijah was there. She heard him splashing about in the bathtub. No light was streaming in like the first time she had caught him like this, just the greyness of dusk, but sufficient to see his fit body glistening with soapy water. Like the first time, she hid herself behind the stack of barrels to her right and peered between them. Her heart pounded hard against her ribcage as she stood stock still, desperate to remain unseen and unheard, like all good little girls. For this was so wrong. If Mary Ann knew what she was doing there would be hell to pay. There would be hell to pay if her father knew. And to hell with revealing this secret to Clover; Clover would scorn her for ever after if she knew about this.

  But what perversity had drawn her here again to watch her own uncle bathing and towelling himself dry, merely to risk censure if discovered? The fact that he was her uncle had nothing to do with it, however. The fact that he was a man, was everything. He was only thirty-two, at the height of his masculinity and virility. That was what drew her. His body was worth looking at. Every bit of him was worth admiring, uncle or no. He was desirable and it irked her that Dorcas was the undeserving woman who was reaping the full benefit.

  He stood up and the warm water streamed off him, rippling back into the tub. With his back toward her he reached out for the towel and covered his head. As he rubbed his hair, she watched mesmerised as his private parts, in perfect profile, bobbed about in rhythm with his arm movements. So drawn was she to this breathtaking scene, that she did not see the little furry creature that had entered the brewery under the door, nibbling conscientiously on a sparse trail of malted barley grains.

  Elijah turned his attentions to his chest, then his arms. He flung the towel across his back, stretched it taut and, as he sawed his straight back dry, Ramona was fascinated again by the erotic joggling of his unfettered manhood. She felt a stirring deep inside her, an ache in the pit of her stomach which, she now freely admitted to herself, was her longing for him. It would have been so easy to strip off her own clothes and run to him, to take him in her arms and drag him to the hard wooden floor in a frenzy of wordless desire. But she remained silent, unmoving, in awe, trying to control her breathing that she realised was coming in gasps, trying to regulate the thumping of her heart.

  Then she felt a tiny sensation, like an itch, on the top of her foot by the leather strap of her shoe. She ignored it. Uncle Elijah was towelling his groin, facing her full on and it was a magnificent sight. She fel
t something again, something else, like little claws digging into her stocking at her ankle…climbing up her leg…

  She screamed.

  ‘What the bloody—’ Elijah was still standing in the bathtub. He jumped out and, wrapping the towel around him, rushed towards the door from whence the terrified scream had come. He heard the scream again – and again. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  By the door, behind the barrels he saw Ramona transfixed, pale, a look of absolute terror on her face. Her skirt was pulled up above her knees and a mouse was vigorously trying to detach itself from the tiny mesh of her stocking. ‘Get him off!’ she screeched. ‘Get him off! Get him off me!’

  ‘Just hold still and keep calm,’ Elijah said gently, securing the towel by tucking the end in. ‘The little mite’s as frit as you are. He won’t hurt you.’ He slid his right hand into the top of her stocking to ease it away from the warm flesh of her thigh, until it was underneath the mouse. ‘This might leave a hole or two in your stocking,’ he informed her. Then he gently lifted the mouse away till its tiny claws pulled free. ‘There. That’s got him.’ He held the creature up to inspect it. ‘He won’t hurt you look, Ramona. He’s just a little mouse.’

  ‘God! Take it away,’ she shrilled.

  Elijah held the mouse firmly in his hand and stroked it. ‘I told you, he won’t hurt you. Look at him, the poor little thing, he’s frit to death.’ He opened the door and put it outside. ‘There. He’s just scurried off. I daresay one of the cats’ll get him.’

  ‘I’ve never been so terrified in my life,’ Ramona admitted, the colour returning to her cheeks. ‘Thanks for rescuing me.’

  ‘What were you doing here?’

  ‘I came to call you for your tea,’ she answered unconvincingly.

  ‘Oh? Did you call? I didn’t hear you.’

  She adjusted the fall of her skirt and looked at her shoes. Embarrassed, she shook her head.

  ‘Have you been peeping at me?’ There was sham admonishment in his voice, mirth in his eyes that belied any real concern or judgement. ‘Have you been getting an eyeful?’