‘Yes?’ said Celia gently.
‘I’m goin’ barmy myself, talkin’ like that.’ Will frowned at the surface of his steaming tea. ‘Just keep listening. D’you want to make things worse for Andrews? You will do if at the inquest you manage to get everyone thinkin’ it was murder, not suicide. If he gets to think it, too, and then finds out the law can’t bring a case, how d’you think he’ll feel for the rest of ’is life? Leave it, Sister Charity, let ’im settle in his mind for suicide. It strikes me there’s one thing the inquest will prove, and that’s that his wife was off her ruddy rocker. It might prove that all you ladies were. Look, Andrews could settle for suicide. And there’s ’is kids. What’s it goin’ to do to them if they have to start thinkin’ their mother was murdered? If there was proof, no-one would be able to ’elp ’em, poor young devils. I wouldn’t, as a kid, want to know my mother was murdered. I’d ’ave a year of nightmares. Let it rest.’
‘Let that man get away with it?’
‘You’re not listening. It’s not just that there’s no proof, it’s the fact that there’s a chance she did chuck herself out. Nor would it surprise me, after hearin’ from Kitty what went on in that loony bin.’
‘I can’t believe Mrs Andrews committed suicide, Will.’
‘Right,’ said Will, and finished his second cup of tea. ‘You ’ave it your way. I’m goin’ home.’
‘No, wait, please,’ begged Celia. ‘Very well, I agree. I have been listening, really I have. For the sake of Mr Andrews’s peace of mind, and for the sake of his children, I won’t go to the police. But I shall tell everyone at the Bloomsbury house how Mr Wilberforce behaved with Kitty Drake. That I must do.’
‘I’m not arguin’ with that,’ said Will. ‘Then what?’
‘Then I shall settle down in Bethnal Green.’
‘You’ll what?’
‘The vicar has already invited me to help run the Bethnal Green Home for Waifs and Strays.’
‘Bethnal Green?’ Will’s face was a study.
‘I have my own lodgings there, opposite yours,’ said Celia.
‘What?’
‘I made up my mind to move from Bloomsbury some time ago. You were right, there was something odd about the League—’
‘I didn’t say that, I just said some of you were a bit barmy.’
‘Perhaps we were in our belief in Mr Wilberforce,’ said Celia. ‘I decided there was work for me in Bethnal Green, so I took up lodgings there.’
‘’Oly Moses, I knew it,’ said Will. ‘I knew you were goin’ to haunt me for the rest of me life.’
‘No, I’m simply going to interest myself in the welfare of the poor people, and in you and Lulu. I promised myself weeks ago that I’d help you redeem yourself.’
‘Do what?’ Mentally, Will was all over the place.
‘I knew there was a good and worthy man under that show of brutality,’ said Celia.
‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Will.
‘Amen,’ said Celia.
‘I’m done for, I’m licked all ends up, I’m goin’ home to fly a white flag out of my window.’
‘Shall we go together?’ said Celia, who knew she had months of patient work to do on a man whose infamous kisses had shocked her and left her breathless and giddy with arousal. He had turned a mouse into a woman.
Outside the café, her hand touched his. Will, a man disbelieving, laughed at himself and a world that was upside-down. He took her hand and they walked up the street together. Celia put behind her the dark shadow of Mr Montgomery Wilberforce.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The inquest was over. Mr Montgomery Wilberforce had paid admirable tribute to the sterling qualities of Mrs Maud Andrews as a servant of the Lord, and offered a sad description of the unhappy state of her mind on the evening of her death. Because she had denied knowing her husband, she could not be comforted. Asked some pertinent questions by the coroner, he answered them in measured, unfaltering tones and maintained a dignified mien throughout.
Mother Joan and four other lady Repenters were called. They all testified to the fact that Mrs Andrews had been very unhappy that day about disclaiming her husband, that it troubled her conscience so much that she went up to Mr Wilberforce in the evening to confess to him. The coroner asked more pertinent questions, but the ladies could see nothing wrong in Mr Wilberforce hearing confession. They did, however, insist it was difficult for them to believe Mrs Andrews would commit the sin of suicide.
Dad had been called and had spoken of the deceased as a good wife and loving mother who had let religion take too much of a hold on her.
It took the jury a long time to come up with the verdict. They must have been impressed by the testimony of Mother Joan and her sisters, for they returned a verdict of death by misadventure. That, to everyone’s relief, particularly the relief of the family, absolved the deceased of the sin of suicide.
Mother Verity – Celia – was not present. She had not been asked to attend, any more than the other ladies had, and she preferred to wait outside the court. Had she attended, she knew she might have asked to give some testimony of her own. Mother Joan, when she emerged, gave her the verdict, and Celia smiled wryly.
‘I’m pleased for Mr Andrews,’ she said, ‘but would like to tell you something about Mr Wilberforce.’ And she told Mother Joan that Mother Magda, Kitty Drake, had left the League because Mr Wilberforce was a pervert. She explained, in as modest a way as she could, that the self-appointed minister had had carnal relations with Kitty many times, and in the most hypocritical fashion, in that he had persuaded Kitty to believe it would lead her to redemption.
‘Poppycock,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Pardon?’ said Celia. They were standing aside from other people.
‘Rubbish,’ said Mother Joan.
‘No, Miss Drake told me herself.’
‘I can believe it,’ said Mother Joan. ‘All wishful thinking and lurid imagination, my dear. A young woman like that, born to be a creature of the flesh, and given to describing how nice her gentlemen friends were. Nice my foot, I daresay every one of ’em was a randy old goat. Poor dear, she tried her best when she joined us, but of course Father Peter to her was a fine figure of a man far more than a minister of God. Off her head about him, lusted after him. Result, feverish imagination. It happens, you know. Woman fancies a man. Can’t have him. So she gets other fancies. Well, fantasies, really.’
‘I assure you,’ said Celia, ‘I believe Miss Drake.’
‘Well, you’re a believing woman, Celia, a good woman,’ said Mother Joan reassuringly. ‘You’d give the benefit of the doubt to Judas Iscariot himself, as well as Pontius Pilate. But it’s poppycock. Father Peter remains our inspiration and our guide. Damned weak link, Kitty Drake proved, running off like that when he was in great need of unanimous support. Gone back to her randy old goats, I don’t doubt.’
‘Ah, my dear ladies.’ Father Peter himself loomed up. ‘How relieved we all are, and how good the Lord has been in inspiring a verdict of misadventure.’
‘Goodbye, Mother Joan, goodbye, all,’ said Celia, and walked away, leaving the dark-souled Mr Wilberforce to his flock of deluded followers. She had tried, but even Mother Joan was as deluded as the rest. She knew what Will would say when she told him. Well, she had some idea of the kind of words he would use. Let them lie on the bed Old Nick’s made for them, they’ll chop his ruddy head off when they finally find him out.
Celia smiled to herself. She did not really mind the kind of words he used. Will was a rough diamond, but ten times the man Mr Wilberforce was. Will had no dark secrets, he was as open as a book. She hurried, wanting to get to Bethnal Green in time to meet Lulu from school and to share a pot of tea with her, and give her a slice of cake. Will would come in later, find her there with Lulu and tell her to stop haunting his lodgings.
But he was weakening, and she knew it.
The funeral was over. Mother had been buried in the consecrated ground of Southwark Cemetery.<
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Dad and his children were picking up the pieces.
Aunt Edie, who had attended the funeral, was waiting. She was not sure what she was waiting for, which meant she was not sure what would turn up. She could do nothing herself. Everything was up to Jack. In desperation, in her need to do something to take her mind off what was close to heartbreak, she participated in a pearly concert. She sang duets with Joe Gosling, she sang solo, she sang with the audience, and she finished by doing a knees-up. Her legs looked corking.
Jimmy received a letter from Sophy. She asked why he hadn’t answered her second letter. Didn’t he realize what an agonizing time she was having at her boarding-school? She poured threats on his head. The other girls were drips, she said, they were all soppy about boys. There was a boys’ boarding-school not far away, and lots of secret meetings went on. So did kissing. Ugh, all that soppy kissing, wrote Sophy, and ordered him to write to her.
Jimmy replied briefly. As her father had obviously not told her about Mother, he said nothing himself. But he did say she was a bit of a soppy kisser herself.
Meanwhile he was giving a lot of thought to Dad, and to Aunt Edie. He and Patsy went to see her one evening. She was so overwhelmed to have them call she actually spilled some tears as she hugged them both. She asked how everyone was.
‘Oh, we’re bearin’ up, Auntie,’ said Patsy, ‘and the neighbours ’ave been ever so kind.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Aunt Edie. ‘Is young Betsy all right?’
‘Dad’s makin’ a fuss of Betsy, Auntie, she likes lots of fuss.’
‘And how’s your dad?’ asked Aunt Edie.
‘I think we’re goin’ to have to do something about Dad,’ said Jimmy.
‘What d’you mean? ‘E’s not ill, is he?’
‘No, he’s fine,’ said Jimmy.
‘What d’you mean, then, you’re goin’ to ’ave to do something about ’im?’ Aunt Edie seemed agitated.
‘Well, we don’t exactly know, do we, Patsy?’ said Jimmy.
‘No, we don’t know exactly, Auntie,’ said Patsy.
‘Well, what’s wrong with ’im?’ asked Aunt Edie.
‘I think it’s bein’ a widower,’ said Jimmy. ‘D’you think it’s bein’ a widower, Patsy?’
‘Yes, I think it’s bein’ a widower, Jimmy,’ said Patsy.
‘Of course, we can’t be sure,’ said Jimmy.
‘No, we can’t be sure, Auntie,’ said Patsy, ‘we’re too young to be sure.’
‘I wish I knew what you two were talkin’ about,’ said Aunt Edie.
‘We don’t really know ourselves,’ said Jimmy.
‘It’s just feelings,’ said Patsy. ‘Aunt Edie, when you goin’ to come an’ see us? Can’t you come on Sunday?’
‘Well, it’s an upset time for the fam’ly,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘it’s best I wait till you’ve all got over it. I can’t come and play the piano and ’ave some laughs with you at the moment. People would think none of us ’ad decent respect. I’d best wait a bit.’
That didn’t sound very convincing to Patsy and Jimmy, but they let it go for the moment and spent an hour with their aunt. She made an effort, she became cheerful, and she helped the hour along by telling them she’d performed at another pearly concert. Jimmy asked what numbers she’d sang, and she said oh, the usual old favourites like ‘Daisy, Daisy’, the kind that kids and their mums and dads were fond of. Jimmy thought her smile a bit forced. She wasn’t herself. Of course, she was naturally unhappy about Mum, her cousin, but he felt it was more than that. Making another effort, she suddenly laughed and said she’d finished her turn by doing a knees-up on the stage, with someone playing ‘Mother Brown’ on the piano.
‘Auntie, what a lark,’ said Patsy.
Just as suddenly, Aunt Edie made a face. ‘I forgot meself,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t ’ave done it, not a knees-up, it was disrespectful, only a week or so after the funeral. I don’t know what got into me. I’d be appreciative if you two wouldn’t tell your dad.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be very clever to tell ’im,’ said Jimmy gravely. ‘He wouldn’t be too pleased that he’d missed you doin’ a knees-up, Aunt Edie, ’specially as he needed a bit of cheerin’ up.’
‘I think Dad likes ladies’ legs,’ said Patsy.
‘All old soldiers do,’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, I’ve heard they do. I think I like them myself.’
‘You’re not an old soldier,’ said Patsy.
‘That’s the funny thing about it,’ said Jimmy. ‘I mean, I’m not an old soldier, but I’m pretty sure I like ladies’ legs.’
Aunt Edie looked from one to the other of them. They were over their mum’s death. It had been some weeks now, and autumn had turned to winter, and there they were, their dad’s son and elder daughter, not looking mournful. And they’d come to see her. Her heart warmed to them.
‘Loveys, I don’t know if we should talk like this,’ she said.
‘It’s all right, Aunt Edie,’ said Patsy, ‘we’ve got kind mem’ries of Mum. Dad says we’re not to ’ave anything but kind mem’ries of ’er.’
‘Yes, she did ’er bit durin’ the war, didn’t she, lookin’ after you all the time your Dad was away,’ said Aunt Edie. ‘We’ve all got to remember that.’
‘Aunt Edie,’ said Jimmy, ‘I don’t see why you can’t come and spend a Sunday with us. You’re our aunt.’
‘Yes, we nearly forgot to mention that Dad said the fam’ly would like to see you.’ Patsy smiled at her aunt.
‘Your dad said that?’
‘We wouldn’t ask you to play the piano,’ said Jimmy.
‘Oh, I’ll come Sunday week,’ said Aunt Edie.
‘Oh, good old Auntie,’ said Patsy.
When they were on their way back home, Jimmy said, ‘Well, you can see how it is, Patsy.’
‘I always knew it,’ said Patsy.
‘Knew what?’ asked Jimmy.
‘That Dad was favourite with Aunt Edie.’
‘That’s it, then,’ said Jimmy, ‘we’ll have to move. I’m earnin’ regular wages now, so we could afford a bit more rent if we moved to somewhere like Kennington.’
‘Like Lorrimore Square, it’s nice there,’ said Patsy.
‘All right, we’ll go and do some lookin’,’ said Jimmy. ‘Say Saturday afternoon. We’ll see if there’s any notices up for houses to rent around there.’
‘Who’s goin’ to speak to Dad?’ asked Patsy.
‘Well, you bein’ a girl, and Dad havin’ a soft spot for girls, ’specially you and Betsy, you ought to speak to ’im,’ said Jimmy. ‘But I’d best do it, as I usually know what I’m talkin’ about, and besides I can operate man to man with Dad.’
‘Big’ead,’ said Patsy.
Jimmy got to the stage where it was his turn to have a private word with Dad.
‘You’re doin’ fine, Dad,’ he said, ‘and so is Patsy.’
‘You’re doin’ your bit too, me lad.’
‘Still, we don’t want to go on like this for ever,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not when it’s not necessary.’
‘I see,’ said Dad. ‘No, wait a tick, I don’t see.’
‘Well, it’s not been a very good time for you,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m not surprised you can’t see straight.’
‘About what?’ asked Dad, eyeing his son warily.
‘About your future.’
‘Listen, Jimmy my son, I’m comin’ up to forty. I’m livin’ me future, I started livin’ it when I came of age.’
‘Now you’re not thinkin’ straight,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’ve had that future, Dad, it’s a back number. I’m talkin’ about your new future. You don’t want to miss it, and you might do if you don’t get started on it.’
‘Oh, is that a fact?’ said Dad.
‘Well, yes, man to man, it is,’ said Jimmy. ‘When are you goin’ round to see Aunt Edie?’
‘What?’ said Dad.
‘Why don’t you pop round this evenin’?’ suggested Jimmy. ‘You two ’ave got to
make arrangements to get fixed up some time.’
‘Say that again,’ said Dad.
‘We’re not daft, y’know, Patsy and me. Of course, you can’t marry Aunt Edie right away, it wouldn’t be decent. You’d have to wait a bit, and of course you couldn’t settle down here with her, you’d have to move, otherwise the two of you would get all kinds of looks. Your luck must be changin’, Dad, because there’s a house comin’ up to rent in Lorrimore Square in Kennington. Patsy and me ’appened to see the firm that’s the landlord of several houses there, and you’ve got to let them know by the end of the week or you might lose your chance of gettin’ the house. It’ll be empty the fourth week in November. It’s three bob a week more than ’ere, but we can manage that, and Aunt Edie’ll go for Lorrimore Square. You could go round and see her now. You’ve had supper, you’ve only got to put your hat an’ coat on. Tell her Betsy can’t wait for her to be her new mum.’
‘Well, knock me over,’ said Dad. He knew what was happening, he knew he was being told that his son and daughters, far from minding about him and Aunt Edie, were all for it. They’d noticed, they’d noticed how he felt about their aunt during those weekends she’d been here. ‘You’re comin’ it a bit, Jimmy lad, givin’ me these kind of orders and doin’ certain things behind me back and all. You’ve grown up more than a bit since you met Mr Gibbs and went to Anerley to work for ’im.’
‘Yes, I’ve got to remind you I’m nearly seventeen,’ said Jimmy, ’and I’m doin’ some thinkin’ on my own account. I fancy ’aving a girl to take out, and I’ve got one in mind, except I might ’ave to struggle with complications. But never mind that, are you goin’ to make a start on this new future of yours?’
‘Chip off me old sergeant-major, you are, Jimmy, I’ll ’ave to watch you,’ said Dad. ‘All right, pass me me hat an’ coat, no point in waitin’ till Aunt Edie comes on Sunday.’
‘What?’ said Aunt Edie, proud bosom actually fluttering a bit.
‘Yes, what d’you think, Edie love?’ asked Dad, having said it all, including a move to Lorrimore Square and a possible date in the New Year. ‘Am I pushin’ you a bit, or takin’ you for granted?’
The Pearly Queen Page 33
