Birthday Present

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘He was set upon by three men,’ Marcus told them. ‘He can come home but he has to rest in bed for another day or two.’

  ‘That I would like to see!’ exclaimed Letitia. ‘When did he ever do what someone wanted him to do?’

  ‘I’ve sent for a taxi, then I’ll fetch him home.’

  Steven came in half an hour later with an attempt at bravado which fooled none of them. He was moving cautiously, lowering himself into an armchair with a few groans.

  Letitia stared at his bandaged jaw and left cheek and winced. ‘You look terrible!’ she told him unhelpfully. ‘Anyone would think you’d met a herd of stampeding elephants!’

  Mrs Bray appeared and tutted at his battered appearance. ‘Shall I make you some hot milk?’

  He rolled his eyes. Moving his mouth carefully he said, ‘I could do with a whisky! Make it a double!’ It came out as a mumble but Marcus guessed what he’d said and moved to the sideboard to pour the drink.

  Letitia said, ‘Should you be drinking alcohol? Have they given you any medicines?’

  Steven ignored her.

  Rose said, ‘I hope the police catch them, Steven – I mean, whoever did this to you.’

  Mrs Bray, her hands on her hips, shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Streets full of thugs! People robbing houses! Smashing church windows! And what’s the government doing? Nothing, if you ask me.’

  Steven said, ‘There’ll be an extra one for dinner tonight, Mrs Bray.’

  She nodded. ‘Did they starve you in that hospital?’

  ‘I couldn’t eat properly. My jaw . . .’

  Rose frowned. ‘Oh, you poor dear!’

  Mrs Bray said, ‘I’ll make it an easy meal – invalid food! I’ll make soup followed by . . . let’s see now . . . fish pie with a mashed potato topping. You’ll manage that all right.’ She gave him a cheerful smile and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Steven drank the whisky in three mouthfuls and held out the glass for a refill. Seeing that he was about to demand serious attention, Letitia rose to her feet. ‘Rose and I have things to talk about,’ she said by way of explanation and the two women made their exit.

  Being left alone with his brother was not at all what Steven wanted. He knew there would be questions and he had not yet perfected his story. He drank the second whisky and handed back the glass. ‘I’m going to lie down,’ he said. ‘I need some sleep.’ He held up a hand. ‘No, I can manage the stairs, thanks Marcus. Just leave me in peace for a couple of hours. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be down in time for dinner.’ He gave Marcus a brave smile. ‘Don’t fuss, old chap. I’m a survivor!’

  Saturday dawned and Rose was delighted to see blue skies and to note that the wind had dropped to a light breeze. The taxi took the three of them down to the quayside at Folkestone and Marcus carried Marie while Rose struggled with their luggage which they had reduced to a minimum but which still weighed a considerable amount.

  Because the weather was good and the crossing promised to be a smooth one they sat on a bench on deck to enjoy the adventure. Marie was dressed warmly although it was midsummer, as they had been warned that there might be cooler winds out in mid-channel. Marcus also carried a travelling rug in case she needed it.

  No one from the family had come with them – Steven because of his injuries, and Letitia because she had another meeting with the dressmaker who was having to make late alterations and was not happy about them. The wedding was only a week away – on the fifth of July – so Marcus and Rose were planning to return on the Wednesday in plenty of time to be of help and support to Letitia.

  A few blasts on the horn announced that they were setting off and the crew dashed to and fro, casting off the ropes and coiling them on the deck in preparation for their arrival in Boulogne. Rose and Marie sat side by side while Marcus went below deck to find a warm drink for Marie. Fellow passengers crowded the rails and the general mood was festive. Rose could see that Marie was enthralled, her eyes shining, her hands clasped excitedly against her chest.

  Rose said, ‘Your mother must be very excited – and Gerard also.’

  Marie nodded happily. ‘I can’t wait to see them or the farm. Mother says there are cows and hens and some friendly pigs . . . and they make their own cider and apple brandy – and I may have some of both!’ She laughed. ‘Not too much though or I may get drunk, like Steven.’ She leaned closer to Rose and lowered her voice. ‘I know he gets drunk sometimes and I don’t believe he was attacked by thugs. Why should anyone attack him? They didn’t steal anything from him. I think he may have got drunk and stumbled around in the road and been knocked down by a horse and cart or even a motor car! But don’t tell Marcus I said that. He’s rather strict with Steven.’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul.’

  ‘And especially not Mother. I don’t want her to worry and Marcus says we needn’t tell her about him being in the hospital. I think – oh, here comes Marcus now with the drinks.’

  He had brought three mugs of hot chocolate and they quickly settled down to enjoy the crossing.

  At five to seven Clarice Feigant went to the back door, watching impatiently for her loved ones to arrive. Gerard had taken the horse and cart to meet Jean-Philippe’s small fishing boat when it returned to Wissant from Boulogne with the visitors. Her husband, full of enthusiasm, had first cleared out the cart and polished the woodwork. The cob had been brushed and his harness polished. Gerard had filled the cart with rugs and cushions for Marcus and Rose but Marie, wrapped in blankets, would fit safely and snugly beside him on the seat. Her husband had been as excited as she was about the visit, she thought gratefully, and neither had spoken of the fact that they would be sharing Marie’s last weeks; nor could they bear to talk about what would come next.

  She had waved Gerard off early in the morning in a fever of anticipation. Covering the distance from Boulogne to Wissant wouldn’t be easy but they had solved the problem. Jean-Philippe, the son of Gerard’s oldest friend, would sail his fishing boat to the port of Boulogne to meet the ferry around eleven o’clock in the morning. He would then bring the three visitors back in his boat to Wissant where Gerard would be waiting with the horse and cart to transport them the last stretch of the journey.

  Clarice had then filled the waiting hours with preparations for their evening meal. She had prepared a large terracotta dish of her own version of cassoulet which contained duck, sausage, ham and beans as well as herbs and this had been simmering for hours in the large farmhouse range. Marie, she had told Gerard, needed nourishing food to give her stamina – the fresher the better! She had made bread to go with it, to be spread lavishly with butter from the milk from their own cows. In the large larder there was a game pie.

  They would have omelettes from their own eggs, stews from the rabbits in the surrounding fields and salad stuff from their vegetable garden. They would even drink the wine made from their own grapes the previous autumn and Jean-Philippe would take out his boat and bring back fish from the sea. Secretly, Clarice planned to keep her daughter alive ‘by hook or by crook!’

  Her sharp ears caught the sound of hooves and the rattle of wheels which grew closer. They were coming. Clarice pressed her hands together. ‘Thank you, God!’ she whispered.

  She had searched the shops for books to read to her daughter and had told her in her letters about the Bastille Day celebrations they would attend on July 14th. She had made up her mind to give Marie countless good things to look forward to. She would give her precious daughter little time to contemplate dying but plenty of good reasons to stay alive!

  A long excited discussion of their journey meant that they did not settle to their meal until just after nine o’clock when Jean-Philippe joined them. Rose had taken to him immediately when she saw him waiting for them on the jetty – a burly figure with wild hair and a broad smile on his face. Now she sat opposite him, watching him enjoying the cassoulet. She found herself wishing that she belonged to a family like the Bennleys and envy
ing Marie. The girl had brothers and sisters, good friends, a mother and a French stepfather – an interesting past. Gerard spoke good English with a strong accent but Jean-Philippe’s grasp of the language was not as good although that did not prevent him from joining in the conversation.

  When Marcus told him that Rose was planning a career on the stage he was puzzled by the word.

  ‘Stage,’ Marcus echoed. ‘That’s the theatre. Théâtre.’

  Jean-Philippe’s cheerful laugh rang out and Rose had the impression that he was not taking her seriously.

  Marie said quickly, ‘Don’t laugh, Jean-Philippe. Rose can sing and she will soon learn to dance. She’s going to take dancing lessons.’

  His bright blue eyes gleamed with fun as Jean-Philippe wagged a warning finger at Rose. ‘Eez not . . . you, le théâtre!’

  ‘Not for me? But why?’ she demanded, trying not to be impressed by his rugged good looks and confident manner.

  ‘Ce n’est pas convenable,’ he explained. ‘No . . . good.’ He reached for another slice of bread.

  Marie and Rose exchanged exasperated glances and looked at Clarice for a translation.

  She hesitated. ‘He says it is not . . . not very respectable. Rather unconventional.’

  Marcus, seeing the expression on Rose’s face, said quickly, ‘He doesn’t mean to be rude, Rose. The music hall is unconventional, you have to admit. Even legitimate actors are thought by some to be slightly beyond the pale.’

  Rose glared at him. ‘Some might say we are more creative.’

  Marie patted Rose’s hand. ‘What does he know about the theatre? He may never have been to one. And he’s French, remember. Maybe they just think differently or . . .’ She let the sentence die, substituting a shrug for the words.

  Rose stared at her shoes.

  Marcus smiled at her. ‘Marie is right. How much do you know about fishing? You are both experts in your own line of work and know nothing about the other.’ He reached out and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.

  ‘True.’

  Clarice said, ‘Take no notice, Rose. Jean-Philippe is teasing you. Now, would anyone like any more cassoulet?’

  They had all dined well and groaned, protesting that they were full, with the exception of Jean-Philippe who nodded eagerly.

  His plate was refilled, their tumblers were refilled with wine and they all chatted while he enjoyed his second helping.

  Gerard asked, ‘How is our daughter, Marcus? Our little Letitia? Very excited, yes?’ He smiled. ‘The wedding is a very wonderful day for her.’

  Marie answered his question. ‘She is very thrilled – but very nervous. No one has seen her dress. It’s a big secret but I know how it will look because we discussed it together.’

  He nodded, pleased. ‘And this man – this Bernard? Bernard da Silva. He is the good man for her?’

  Marie nodded enthusiastically. ‘He seems very nice and he’s rich and his family are—’

  ‘Rich? ‘He shook his head. ‘It is not about the money. It is about the happiness. The love. Does he love her?’ Gerard leaned forward and now, Rose thought, he looked a different man. Very intense. Almost stern. ‘Does he adore her? This man must make her happy for the rest of her life!’

  Taken aback, Marie regarded him warily. ‘Most certainly he loves her!’

  Clarice threw a warning glance at her husband but Gerard appeared not to notice. She said, ‘Letitia wrote very lovingly about him, Gerard. You’ve forgotten.’

  He said passionately, ‘It is so easy to make the mistake – to marry the wrong man. She is my only child. Our only child. I want . . . your mother and I want only her happiness. That is for all of you the same. We want you to be happy and to be loved.’

  Rose felt a frisson of envy. Did her own father care so passionately about her? Did anyone care that much about her? Certainly her mother would have cared but Pa was different. How wonderful to have such a loving father. She felt a moment’s fierce irritation with the absent Letitia who refused to appreciate Gerard, and wondered if Marcus was thinking along the same lines. She glanced at him but he was very quiet, apparently lost in thought.

  Feeling that the cheerful dinner conversation was taking a less than jolly direction Rose said brightly, ‘It will be a splendid day!’ Smiling, she picked up her tumbler. ‘Here’s to Letitia’s wedding!’

  Marie looked at her gratefully and did the same and soon they were all sharing a toast to Letitia’s long and happy marriage.

  Marie turned her attention to Jean-Philippe. ‘Do you have a wife?’

  He looked at his friend who translated.

  Jean-Philippe threw back his head and laughed. ‘A wife? Mais non!’

  Clarice said, ‘He’s a confirmed bachelor. Or maybe no one will have him!’

  He listened to the translation then rolled his eyes. ‘Peut-être.’

  Clarice translated. ‘Perhaps.’

  Gerard grinned. ‘Pity the poor woman!’

  Clarice looked enquiringly at Rose.

  Rose shook her head. ‘No one,’ she said firmly. ‘Marcus told my employer that he was going to marry me! I knew nothing about it, of course, but I had told my employer at the Supper Room that I was concentrating on my career.’

  All heads turned to Marcus who had the decency to colour slightly. ‘I was simply trying to protect her.’

  Clarice narrowed her eyes. ‘So has she turned you down?’

  ‘He hasn’t asked me.’

  ‘But if he did?’

  Now they all turned to look at Rose.

  She shook her blonde curls. ‘How can I answer that? I am not going to marry anyone until I’m famous. Not until I’m known as the famous Miss Lamore!’

  Jean-Philippe said suddenly, ‘Quand je trouverai la femme parfaite, je la reconnaîtrai.’

  Rose regarded him blankly but Clarice smiled. ‘He’ll recognize his perfect woman when he sees her!’

  Clarice began to collect the empty plates and Rose helped her. Her thoughts lingered, however, on what Jean-Philippe had said. Was it really as easy as that? What happened if you didn’t recognize the right person? Had Letitia recognized Bernard? She had heard about love at first sight but did it always happen like that? Clarice had made a mistake the first time she fell in love . . . unless it was equally easy to fall out of love. Rose decided she must bear that in mind and keep her eyes open. How terrible if the perfect man slipped past her.

  Soon the table was reset with a cheese board and crusty bread, and a large dish of fresh fruit. Marie, tired but happy to be with her mother, refused to go to bed and the evening continued with good food and equally good humour.

  Monday, June 30th found Steven hurrying downstairs in his pyjamas and dressing gown, cursing roundly. He had been woken by the sound of the front door bell and Mrs Bray seemed to be missing. Possibly in the garden fetching some vegetables for the evening meal. Letitia never answered the front door. God help Bernard!

  As he ran down the stairs he shouted ‘I’m coming, damn you!’

  He peered cautiously through the coloured glass in the door to make sure that Markham’s thugs were not standing on the doorstep. The unfamiliar outline was too small, he decided, so he plucked up his courage and opened the door. An elderly woman stood there and for a moment he stared at her in dismay. Who was this old hag, he wondered. Were there gypsies in the area? They didn’t usually appear until the apples needed picking.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I need to speak to Rose Paton.’

  ‘Why come here? She doesn’t live with us. She lives with some crackpot woman . . .’

  She drew herself up a little. ‘She lives with me and I’ll ask you to mind your language! I’m Connie and I need to know when she’s coming back. Our lord and master’s expecting—’

  ‘Lord and master?’

  ‘That’s what we all call him. He’s our landlord, see.’ She started again. ‘Mr Markham’s expecting her for tonight’s performance and he’s sent me to look for her. It
’s lucky I knew her address here.’

  Recognizing the name Connie, Steven regretted his use of the word ‘crackpot’. This woman, according to Rose, had once been Markham’s lady friend. Must have been donkey’s years ago, he thought, eyeing the lined, powdered face, dirty hair and shabby clothes, but he had no wish to cause Markham any further aggravation. The less contact he had with that sadist the better.

  He assumed a friendly smile. ‘Oh Connie! You’re the lady that makes the bacon rolls!’

  ‘Bacon and onion actually but yes, that’s me.’ She thawed a little, he thought. ‘I’m a dab hand with suet crust. I do her a bit of supper and I think she appreciates it. She needs fattening up a bit. Poor little legs like sticks! So she’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘Not exactly. She’s friendly with my brother Marcus.’ He put a hand to his back which was beginning to ache.

  ‘So, can I have a word with her?’ Connie asked.

  ‘I’m afraid they’re not back yet. You knew they were going to France, I suppose, to take my sister over to Mother’s place?’

  ‘Yes, but I forgot the dates and he wants to know whether or not to include her in the show this evening.’ She shook her head. ‘He won’t take it kindly if she doesn’t turn up. He’s got a bit of a temper and he’ll be thinking she’s let him down.’

  ‘They didn’t leave until very early Saturday and they wouldn’t be back quite so soon. It’s quite a journey.’

  ‘I thought they were going to Boulogne.’

  ‘So they were but Mother lives at Wissant some miles further along the coast.’ He felt uneasy under her scrutiny.

  ‘You’d be Steven. She’s spoke about you.’

  ‘None of it good, I suspect!’ Smiling was an effort and he fingered his aching jaw. There was hardly an area of his body that wasn’t sore. The Sister on the hospital ward had tried to persuade him to involve the police but he had fought shy of that, insisting that he had taken a tumble down some steps while under the influence. She hadn’t believed him but finally gave up.