A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

Clover picked up her cup and sipped her tea, keeping it in front of her face. She resented her mother’s remarks but it was politic to make no comment.

  ‘’Course, Clover will have to work in the business now Ramona’s gone,’ Jake pronounced and Clover looked at him aghast. He returned her look steadily. ‘So Monday, you can hand in your notice at Cook’s ready to start work here. I see no sense in employing anybody else when me own stepdaughter can do the job standing on her head.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to work here?’

  ‘You’ll do as you’m bid, madam,’ Mary Ann responded haughtily.

  ‘I’m twenty-one, Mother, and I’ll do as I please. I won’t work here if I don’t want to.’

  ‘Oh? Then you’d best find another bed to sleep in, ’cause there’ll be ne’er un here for thee.’

  Clover, of course, capitulated. Where could she go? She thought about it long and hard but, in the end, decided that to work in the family brewing business was the right thing to do. Besides, it was unfair to put yet more stress and strain on her mother and Jake so soon after all the trouble and anxiety over Ramona. They had had their fair share of troubles also. So, on Monday morning, she handed the letter she had written to the manager of her department and waited for the reaction.

  It was a long week and Clover was still suffering acutely the pains of love and the shock of Tom’s marriage to Ramona. Her appetite began to improve, however, except that in a morning she could not face breakfast. To compensate, Mary Ann, to her credit, made a special effort to present some tasty and substantial dishes to the meal table. She had noticed Clover’s listlessness and sallow complexion and realised she needed feeding up. ‘You’ll go to nothing if you don’t perk up, werriting about that ne’er-do-well,’ she said, but not unkindly.

  Each night that week Clover served in the taproom and helped clear up after closing time, preparing herself for the new routine that was to be her lot. She made no arrangements to meet Ned Brisco although he appeared in the taproom for a drink one evening. Clover was neither impressed nor pleased with him. He had only ill to say about Tom Doubleday. His constant bitching was wearing thin. She assumed it was designed to colour her view of Tom, when nothing could. So she avoided seeing Ned further.

  Besides, people were already talking.

  Chapter 21

  It was on the very Monday morning that she officially began working in the family business that Clover Beckitt realised she was pregnant. Any fool would have known it sooner, but Clover, so preoccupied with her loss of Tom Doubleday, had put down all symptoms to that very preoccupation. Worry had inhibited her monthly bleeding, or so she thought. It had not been a great concern at first; worry had had a similar effect before and she’d read somewhere that your mental state could affect your monthly cycle. Pains in her stomach and tender, swollen breasts had been suggesting for a while that she was about to start bleeding, but she had not shown. Morning sickness and a belly so hard that it seemed there was a football tucked away in there were the later clues that ultimately made her realise.

  Strangely, she was not concerned. The child could only be Tom’s. So, although she had lost him forever, she would still have something of him to last her the rest of her life. She hoped she would have a boy, the image of Tom, and she began imagining the child. In her daydreams she would nuzzle him at her breast, looking down on his little baby head with all the love and protection a mother felt. She pictured herself playing little games with him, teaching him how to do things, kissing better the scratches and grazes that hurt him when he tumbled.

  But would it ever be so idyllic? The realities of life were somewhat harsher. Losing Tom to her stepsister, when she now had an equal claim on him, galled her. As the days passed the irony of it grew even more bitter. She could have married Tom herself. She should have married him. He was the father of her unborn child as well as Ramona’s. If she’d realised beforehand and he’d been offered the choice, she knew whom he would have chosen, and let Ramona sort out her own salvation. If only she’d listened to him when he had protested his innocence. If only she’d heeded his letter, swallowed her pride and gone to see him, talked things over. She should have given him the benefit of any doubt. She had driven him into the arms of Ramona as certainly as if she’d shepherded him there. Her misplaced pride, arrogance and overdone prudishness had done her more harm than good. She had sown the wind. Now she was reaping the whirlwind.

  Of course, she had not forgotten another side to all this, which was yet to manifest itself: the social disgrace. Some folk would cross the street rather than nod a greeting and be seen associating with her. Her child would be labelled a bastard, she a fallen woman. And if her mother took it badly…

  Just how long could she keep the knowledge of her condition from her mother?

  She began to count back the weeks. Her last lovemaking with Tom had been the night of their reconciliation; 3rd June. She remembered the date as if it were her own birthday; it had been a glorious night of love, the recommencing of the rest of their lives. If the tenderness and love they had felt for each other that night was the pointer for their future, they would have been a contented couple indeed. If only she’d known how short-lived it was going to be. Assuming she had conceived on 3rd June, and she knew well enough that it must have been, her child would be born at the end of February or early March. It was now the end of August. Already she was nearly three months pregnant. She would have her child before Ramona had hers. When Tom knew he would realise the child was his. How would he feel about that?

  The mirror provided little evidence of pregnancy yet; her stomach, though slightly more rounded, would look flat enough under her dresses. She might hide her condition for another couple of months. But sooner or later, depending on how the child inside her affected her shape, she would have to confess. The trouble was, she lacked the courage, especially after the hostile reaction Ramona had experienced.

  So she continued to work in the Jolly Collier and in the brewery. She never asked for help from Elijah or Jake when it came to moving barrels or lifting hop pockets lest they guess her secret, and she hoped that such strenuous exertion would not cause her to miscarry; she wanted Tom’s child whatever else fortune might fling at her.

  In September a new bottling line was installed and four women were employed to operate it. The brewery was prospering. Elijah, who was mastering the brewer’s art commendably, employed an able assistant who had worked at another brewery and output was increasing steadily along with sales. Jake, for his part, was proving an astute businessman.

  With Ramona out of the way, Clover was enjoying working at home, despite the cloud that hung over her. The pain of lost love was becoming less intense and only the apprehension over the likely reaction to her condition continued to concern her. She renewed friendships with people she’d not seen much while working at Cook’s and it was a pleasure to see Zillah Bache regularly again. In slacker moments they would gossip for ages but never once was Clover inclined to confess her secret, even though she knew she could talk to Zillah about such things.

  Ned Brisco, meanwhile, had given up calling on her. Clover imagined he was tired of losing the battle to win her when she remained so obstinately in love with Tom, a love Ned could not understand, and probably never would.

  Ned Brisco was having problems of his own, however. The continued failure of Star Engineering to design and manufacture a suitable engine for his Gull irked him beyond belief. Another test in August had failed to get the Gull airborne and he was becoming despondent. So much so that he decided to spell out his grievances to Edward Lisle and hang the consequences. He tapped on the door of Mr Lisle’s office and was summoned inside.

  ‘Ned, good morning. What can I do for you?’

  Ned stood before Mr Lisle’s desk feeling like a naughty schoolboy yet determined that he would not to be overawed. He straightened himself up and took a deep breath. ‘I’m here to complain about our lack of progress on the aeroplane engine, Mr Lisle.’

/>   ‘I see.’ Edward Lisle pressed his fingers together in a peak as if he was about to pray and sat back in his chair. ‘Sit down, Ned.’

  ‘I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you, Mr Lisle.’ This was a new Ned, combative, more confident in himself.

  ‘I too am disappointed, Ned. I have my own ideas as to why we have failed so far. But I’d like to hear yours.’

  ‘It’s because nobody in this factory has got a clue what’s needed to produce an aeroplane engine. I keep telling Bill Harris till I’m blue in the face that I need speed, not torque but I’m still getting no more revolutions out of his useless creation than I was the first time.’

  ‘So…Do you have a remedy, Ned?’

  ‘I’m not an engine designer, Mr Lisle, but I wish to God I was, ’cause I would’ve sorted this lot out long ago. But I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we buy an Antoinette engine from France? We could strip it down and see why it’s so much better than ours. We could learn from it. Then, we could develop our own engine, based on what we discover – even improve on it.’

  Mr Lisle continued to lean back in his chair, his fingers still together in a peak. ‘It’s an interesting idea, Ned, I have to confess. So how much do you suppose an Antoinette would cost us?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. I reckon maybe nine hundred, a thousand pounds…’

  Mr Lisle shook his head. ‘I’m not committing us to spend a thousand pounds when we surely must be so close to achieving success with our own design, Ned.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that we are close, Mr Lisle. I’m sure it’d be cheaper in the long run.’

  ‘You may be right. Even so…I refuse to be beaten by French machinery—’

  ‘With respect, Mr Lisle, we’ve already been beaten by French machinery. Did you hear that somebody called Leon Delagrange had set a new record by staying up in the air for half an hour on the 5th of September…in France? But it’s not just the French, is it? In America last week, Orville Wright even managed an hour and ten minutes. We haven’t been able to get off the bloody ground yet. My Gull flies, Mr Lisle, but with your engine it doesn’t! I’m getting pretty fed up. You promised me co-operation and a free hand to get this project running. I’m not getting it, Mr Lisle.’

  Edward Lisle leaned forward and placed his hands on his desk, his fingers interlocked, and forced a smile. ‘I understand your frustration, Ned, but currently we have other priorities. As you know we have the Briton project on hand, our new company that will produce the cheaper range of Briton motor cars. They have to be designed and tested, the new factory has to be built. We are developing the new four-cylinder fifteen-horsepower, a more expensive motor car to be made under the Star banner. These things consume manpower and money, Ned. I’m sorry, but we can spare nobody else to assist you in the aeroplane engine project – not yet at any rate. However, Bill Harris will help you when he can, I’m sure.’

  Ned sighed discontentedly. ‘So let me have an Antoinette.’

  The other man hesitated. ‘Let me think about it,’ he said eventually. ‘Let me put it to the Board. I understand your concern and I’m as keen as you are to build successful aeroplanes. There’s going to be a big market out there for them. I’ll cite your very arguments. Thank you, Ned.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lisle.’

  The following day, Ned bought his daily newspaper from the paper shop in George Street on his way to his tram and was astounded by a headline that jumped off the page. He read on:

  ‘An American army officer was killed yesterday when an aircraft piloted by Orville Wright lost a propeller blade which unbalanced the diametrically opposed blade causing it to tear through the loose wires controlling the rudder outriggers on the wings. Orville Wright was also injured in the resulting crash but is expected to recover. He had been conducting trials for senior army officers to demonstrate how the aircraft met all War Department requirements. Trials, however, were set to continue.’

  Ned sighed. There was clearly a military use for aeroplanes if the American military thought so.

  Four days later, Ned saw in his newspaper that Orville Wright’s brother, Wilbur, had stayed aloft for more than an hour and half, covering a distance of sixty-one miles. On October 4th, Ned’s newspaper blared that the same Wilbur Wright had set a record time for carrying a passenger with a flight of fifty-five minutes. All this aerial success was occurring with a sickening monotony.

  It was at this point that Ned Brisco realised that his dream of catching up with and overtaking the French and American aviators would never be achieved, whether or not Mr Lisle sanctioned the acquisition of an Antoinette engine.

  By the middle of October the weather changed for the worse. Summer had gone and all there was to look forward to was winter with its bitter cold and its choking fogs. That Monday, the 19th, was wet and dreary with a piercing chill you would normally associate with late November. Clover, who had been working in the brewery, had gone to the scullery to make the mid-morning pot of tea for the other workers. She carried a tray containing the fresh-filled teapot and an assortment of mugs over to the brewhouse. While it steeped she could have a chat with Zillah who was doing the weekly wash.

  ‘Hello, Zillah,’ she said brightly. ‘What have you done to the weather?’

  ‘Hello, Clover, my wench.’ Zillah was wearing a thick, hand-knitted ganzy to keep out the cold. ‘I’ve done sod-all to the weather but it’ll bugger up the drying and no two ways.’

  Clover laughed at her concern and put the tray on the top of the boiler while she gossiped. ‘Don’t worry, Zillah. I’ll pull down the drying rack in the scullery. When I’ve taken the tea to Elijah and the others I’ll come and help you with it.’

  ‘God bless you,’ Zillah said gratefully, turning the mangle to squeeze water from a towel. ‘How is Elijah? Is married life suiting him?’

  ‘I think so. He doesn’t say much, but he seems keen enough to get back to Dorcas when he’s finished work.’

  ‘Has he said whether the wench is pregnant? Your mother swore as her’d got one up her when they was wed.’

  ‘Well, I think mother’s going to be disappointed…I don’t think Dorcas is pregnant after all.’

  Zillah chuckled. ‘Well, damn my hide. Just goes to show, eh? That’ll learn her to jump to conclusions. Hast heard how young Ramona is?’

  Clover shook her head and a shadow seemed to cloud her face.

  Zillah, as perceptive as ever, noticed. ‘I’m sorry, my wench. I shouldn’t have mentioned Ramona, should I?’

  ‘No, it was a bit tactless, Zillah, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Still painful after all this time then, eh?’

  ‘And things will get even more painful…’ She looked into Zillah’s eyes tellingly.

  ‘Oh?’ Zillah queried. ‘D’you want to tell me why?’

  ‘I don’t particularly want to tell anybody, but it’ll be obvious soon enough, if it isn’t already…I’m pregnant as well, Zillah…’

  She ceased her mangling and looked with alarm at Clover. ‘D’you mean what I think you mean? That you’m carrying Ramona’s husband’s child? Tom’s child?’

  Clover nodded. ‘Well, it’s nobody else’s. And that’s a fact.’

  ‘Oh, my God. And does he know?’

  ‘No, and I don’t want him to know. As far as he’s concerned it’s somebody else’s – anybody’s. So swear to me, Zillah, that you won’t breathe a word that it’s Tom’s child. If he doesn’t know, then at least him and Ramona have a chance together.’

  ‘Me lips am sealed, Clover. But to think – you could’ve married him yourself. You must be as wicked as a wasp…Have you told your mother yet?’

  Clover shook her head and shivered from the cold. ‘I’m dreading it. Do I show yet, Zillah? Can you tell?’ She twisted round to show herself in profile.

  Zillah offered another towel to the mangle’s wooden rollers and began to turn the wheel. ‘Yes, you’m starting to show, Clover, if you want the truth…But I guessed yo
u was pregnant above a month ago. You’ve got that look about you. ’Course, I said bugger all. I mean, it’s none o’ my business. So what am you gunna do?’

  Clover shrugged. ‘I want to keep the child. I just hope Mother will accept things. If not…If not, I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  ‘I can’t see Mary Ann taking kindly to this news, Clover. Her abhors that sort o’ thing. Her could never hold her head up in St John’s church again.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, you seem very calm about it, young Clover.’

  ‘The lull before the storm…Like I said, I’m dreading telling her.’

  ‘Clover, my wench, be ruled by me. Get on and tell her, for Lord’s sake. The longer her has afore the babby’s born the more her’ll get used to the idea. Tell her today. Don’t thee hivver-hover. Her might be vexed at fust but her’ll come round. No woman can resist a grandchild.’

  ‘D’you think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  Clover lifted the cosy off the teapot, took off the lid and gave the pot a stir. Then she poured a mug of tea for Zillah and stirred it.

  ‘Here. Try this. I’ve already sugared the mugs.’

  ‘Ta, my babby.’ She took the steaming mug and took her first sip. ‘How is Mary Ann today?’

  ‘A bit grumpy.’

  ‘Grumpy? Her’s always bloody grumpy. I don’t know how you put up with her.’ She placed her mug on the brick windowsill and folded her huge arms across her ample chest.

  ‘Well,’ Clover sighed, ‘she’ll be a sight grumpier after I’ve told her.’

  By this time, Tom and Ramona had found a terraced house to rent in Edward Street, not far from Tom’s parents’ home in Stafford Street on the other side of town from Kates Hill. From the front, the house looked like a normal two-storey affair but, at the rear, it had three storeys, the decent-sized scullery taking up the bottom floor and overlooking a small garden which Tom intended to use for growing vegetables next summer.

  To their neighbours they seemed like any ordinary young married couple and Ramona always had a pleasant smile for them as she stopped to pass the time of day and gossip about everyday things. She settled into the rhythm of married life easily. In bed, Tom found her accommodating but, as her belly began to expand and her waist started to thicken, the frequency of lovemaking rapidly diminished and they both would lie awake unspeaking, thinking their own thoughts.