Cordelia

by Winston Graham

  Perhaps Stephen’s presence coloured her feelings. She loved the Brothers Rouse, two sober little men with impassive faces and black moustaches and black tights, who tumbled about all over the stage and twisted themselves into impossible knots and boiled an egg in a pan on a stove on a slack wire, all without the slightest change of expression.

  She didn’t so much care for Miss Lottie Freeman, who came on dressed in flesh-coloured tights, a too-close-fitting bodice with spangles and cheap jewellery, and a curly-brimmed bowler hat. The costume was indecent and her soprano voice was high and harsh. But Miss Lottie was a favourite with the men, who hooted and whistled and cat-called for her again and again. Cordelia realized she was seeing life.

  It was all rather warm and jolly and friendly, and nicer than she expected. She liked the little orchestra which accompanied as required. Just for the moment she liked its brassiness, its jiggy, easy tunes, and the way the players grinned and nodded and smoked. In the body of the hall knives and forks clattered occasionally; and here and there a diner lost interest in the show and tucked into his meal. But for the most part the audience was content with light refreshments and plenty of beer. The military man seemed to know everybody by a Christian name and chatted and joked with his cronies in the audience as well as with the people on the stage. As the evening went on a haze of blue smoke filmed the back of the hall.

  Signor Palermo was ingenious but went on too long, and a few people got restive. Then someone gave a comic monologue and followed it with a pathetic one, all about a little dog that was frozen to death in the snow. When Miss Lottie Freeman came on a second time she was wearing a railwayman’s coat and peaked cap, and Cordelia liked her better this time. She sang a song called, ‘The Railway Guard’, and asked everyone to join in the chorus. It went:

  ‘I try to be merry but it is no use;

  My case is very hard.

  She left me as silly as a farmyard goose

  When she married that railway guard.’

  Absurd and catchy. Stephen and Cordelia joined in with the rest and laughed at each other when it was over. For the moment they had forgotten their separateness and become one of a crowd of homely revellers in out of the drab grey streets for an hour or two and making the most of the warmth and the light. Herb from over at the waterworks with the crippled wife; and Jack and Teddie, who had had a successful day on Change and were ending it suitably; Will the dhooti buyer from the shippers in Corporation Street; and Clarence the cotton broker who was dying of consumption; Arthur the teacher and Joe the medical student and Michael the Armenian Jew and Fred the bus driver, and the heavy swells leaning against the bar, stroking their moustaches and sipping their drinks.

  The Boston Minstrels were the hit of the evening, four men made up as Negroes: curly wigs, shirt collars, shiny black faces, gaping mouths; this was something new. They had an accordion, a tambourine, a banjo, and bones.

  They sang: ‘I’d Choose to Be a Daisy If I Could Be a Flower’. Fine voices with little artificial sobs; the queer, flat, quivering music had a strange appeal like the sighs of an old sad people long gone from their homes.

  After that came ‘Swanee River’, and everyone clapped and shouted for more. The refined, powerful, military man announcing it as a special encore, they sang ‘Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground’. Cordelia’s eyes were wet when it finished.

  They saw the show right through, and at the end she came out of a happy dream to find it after ten o’clock. She said she must fly. He said:

  ‘Do you need to go? What reason is there to be afraid? Only a couple of old people who won’t even notice what time you come in. Stay a while and talk. Everyone will be going home. Aren’t you hungry again? I can get you some sandwiches and there’s plenty to drink.’

  But she wouldn’t stay, and, seeing her mind made up, he sent the page down to get his carriage. While they were waiting the barmaid came in. She was an overblown woman of about fifty with bleached hair, and Stephen said:

  ‘Oh, Delia, this is Char, an old friend of the family. Char, this is a friend of mine.’

  ‘Evening, dear,’ said Char. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

  She smiled brightly, warmly, but her eyes were knowledgeable and assessing.

  In the carriage she felt Margaret’s diary in her bag. She had meant to show it to Stephen, to ask his advice. Now it seemed unimportant. Yet it was the spring which had released her reckless mood of this evening. That and what Dan had said.

  He said: ‘ It’s been a wonderful evening. I wish we could have many more just like it. Just like it.’

  ‘I have enjoyed it. Thank you for everything.’

  ‘This fortnight,’ he said, ‘ well, it’s our heyday. Whatever may happen after, however we may plan, let’s make the most of this.’

  ‘You suddenly sound very serious.’

  ‘Not suddenly. I deny it! Everything between us is serious – has been from the start. But nothing’s sure and decided, is it? Then let’s make certain of what is certain, tonight, tomorrow, the day after.’

  She stared at the shape of his head, silhouetted as he leaned forward a moment. Then some passing light brought light to his eyes as he turned to look at her. She felt the impulsive positive warmth of his presence like something new, freshly realized.

  ‘Can you not come down again, as you did in July?’ he said. ‘I’d wait for you; we’d drive to my house, no distance; a couple of miles. There’s no one there; a few servants, and they’d be asleep. It’s – too good to be missed. A chance in a thousand. Please say you’ll come.’ He put his hand eagerly on her arm, trying to see her expression in the dark.

  She said: ‘There’s really only one way out; I dread it; but it’s less underhand. In a year or two perhaps you will have moved. I can come and join you–’

  ‘We can’t wait for years, Cordelia. We love each other, isn’t that all that matters? If we’d met a few years earlier the world would be giving us its blessing. Your marriage was a sad mistake …’ It was on the tip of his tongue to speak of his own, but he was not sure enough of her yet; such a confession might drive her away from him for this precious week, or perhaps for good.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ I know now. I don’t owe the Fergusons all that loyalty, not with–’ She hesitated to say, ‘With the suspicion of Margaret’s death hanging over them.’ ‘But my own family … Oh, I don’t know, forgive me, darling. I’m pulled both ways.’

  He pressed home his advantage, and at last she said: ‘That last time – being shut out – I should have no peace of mind.’

  ‘Then let me come to you. Your ivy is still as strong as ever.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Why not? It’s the simplest possible climb.’

  She thought: In that room … Worst of all. Brook’s room … And with the memory of last time …

  But it had also been Margaret’s room. Wasn’t Margaret really Brook’s wife? Mightn’t she still be his wife if …

  Thought gave out.

  ‘All right,’ she said, plunging suddenly, recklessly down.

  He said: ‘I hoped – when you came tonight. Something in your look. But I hardly dared to think …’

  Thereafter there is no going back. The chasm of yesterday becomes the lover’s leap of today and the accepted risk of tomorrow. Twenty-two years of sheltered upbringing is the chrysalis that breaks, and the butterfly spreads its wings.

  In authority at the dye works; in control of Grove Hall; in love. Here is all the earth and all the kingdoms of the earth. But careful, says common sense, that common sense taken from ancestors slow and steady, careful, pride goeth; now show your mettle. Yes, Mr Simnel, I know what you’re talking about when you speak of Norton’s patent for tipping pile goods with lacquer. Yes, Mrs. Meredith, Mr Ferguson spoke to me before he left; he wants the Welsh coal; oh, order two tons of it, we have plenty of storage. I’m sorry, Madam Herbert, I don’t seem to have the concentration to play today, could we have the singing exercises instead
? Sometimes conscience raised its head, staring, unbelieving. Sometimes the mind withdrew and held up a pointing finger. You. You. Madness. Whom the gods would destroy … And then it all slid away into the blank unreason of knowing she would meet him again, of needing to hear his voice.

  Aunt Tish grumbled at her going out, but Uncle Pridey hardly seemed to notice. He had bought some tree shrews and was making a special cage for them.

  Mr Ferguson came back on Saturday evening, and Sunday was a day back to normal. The early bath and walk and prayers, the presence about the house, the servants just a little quieter, the breathing, the elastic boots, the drive to church. Her father and mother and Teddy and Emma and Sarah and Penelope; a pang at the sight of them. It’s a shame, Essie being at Newton Heath; that’s two gone now, Delia, and your father feels it a lot, though he doesn’t say much. Dear Anne will be fourteen next week; she’s at home cooking the dinner; she seemed to want to. Yes, and looking after Winifred and Virginia and Evelyn Clarissa.

  Father is greyer, she thought, and so thin; such a pathetic little neck, but it could be so stiff if he felt like it. What would he say?

  The drive home and the heavy midday dinner. Mr Ferguson carving. The specialist in Town had said half a pound of lean steak every day to get his weight down; he was doing that. An easy cure, he said, expecting everyone to smile. Afterwards a drowsy afternoon – no needlework allowed – then tea and more prayers. Rain came with the dark as they were leaving for church. They got back to a late supper with Aunt Tish wondering what Brook would be doing in that there London. Mr Ferguson for once was tired and untalkative, and everyone was early to bed.

  An oasis of respectability.

  On Monday morning as they were driving down to Town together Mr Ferguson ordered Tomkins to stop, and she saw the old half-blind man who had taken her message to Stephen coming eagerly towards them. A moment of panic.

  He came with his frayed coat, his wicker basket, the artificial flowers dangling; bowed nervously and grinned and said the weather was good and he hoped Mr Ferguson was well. Thanking you, Betty’s rheumatism was better this week; she only got worried when it cramped her hands. Mr Ferguson gave him five shillings and he clutched the silver, his hand trembling in his anxiety not to drop it, not to let it tinkle on the road and roll away. Then he turned the blue eye that could just see and the paler blue one like a dead disc upon Cordelia and said would Mrs Brook be so kind as to accept a flower, just a little one as a token of respect?

  He knew her, then. The bogy of discovery leered at her. Suppose he said, ‘ I remember you from taking your letter to the gentleman.’ ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘May it bring you luck, ma’am. The best of luck to all your family!’

  They drove on.

  ‘One does one’s best for such people,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘Little enough as it is.’

  ‘Do you – know him?’

  ‘I give him five shillings every Monday. It helps to keep them alive.’

  By what a narrow thread all her affairs hung. ‘He’s always there,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. They live in a cellar close by. It costs them four shillings a week. His wife works sixteen hours a day making artificial flowers for a factory. She earns about nine shillings a week.’

  ‘Nine shillings!’

  ‘She’s paid sixpence a gross for geraniums and twopence ha’penny a gross for buttercups. Not much, as you’ll agree. Of course roses are more. But she only gets time to leave the cellar about twice a week.’

  Roses were more. She stared at the single red flower in her gloved fingers.

  ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have taken it from him.’

  ‘Oh, he wanted you to have it. Educated people don’t believe in luck, but that was his idea.’

  ‘Have you been giving him the money long?’

  ‘Some years.’

  When they reached the works Mr Ferguson did not say much, but she could see he was pleased. There was satisfaction for her in that. Faithful to one trust if false to the other.

  He left for London on the evening train.

  Wednesday was fine and mild for the time of year. Only in the city was it smoky with a suggestion of fog.

  For the first time at the works she found trouble and a decision to be taken. Simnel came to her the moment she got in and said the foreman of the steaming-room reported that the new colours they had begun printing yesterday were marking off. Calico when printed was steamed to fix the dyes, and marking off meant that dye from one piece of cloth left a stain on the next fold. The remedy was to wind a grey cloth between each fold of the dyed cloth, but Mr Ferguson had told her he had abandoned this as requiring too much labour and cutting down the steaming capacity of the plant by half. She knew that great care was exercised when planning the dyeing to avoid this trouble.

  To cover her hesitation, she asked to see the foreman concerned and also the head foreman of the printing machines. She could not quite be sure whether this was really something Simnel could not solve for himself or whether he was ‘trying it on’ and knew the answer all the time.

  Just before they came back she remembered what she had been taught. She heard the steamer’s report and looked at the cloth and then said:

  ‘Has your steam been too moist? The cloth is still damp.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But you can do nowt else wi’ madder and alizarin. Ye need wet steam an’ low pressure an’ a long Standing to fix ’em safe.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Oh, upperds of two hours.’

  She looked at the other foreman. ‘Mr Ferguson will have planned this – these colours with you. Did he think there might be any trouble?’

  ‘Nay. We did just same last month.’

  ‘But with wet steam you will be more likely to get marking off, won’t you?’

  Simnel spoke. ‘Best thing, Mrs Ferguson, is to use the grey cloth. It’s safest in long run.’

  She saw he was ‘trying nothing on’, but she didn’t like his solution. It was the easy one to take. But would Mr Ferguson have taken it? She asked if they could deepen the engraving, which, she remembered reading, would allow of a drier steam for the same colours. Apparently they could not.

  They were waiting for her decision. She got up and went to the window, conscious that their eyes were on her. Each in his own department had far more practical knowledge than she could ever hope to have, but their knowledge did not extend beyond the confining limits of their own work, and if they had been left in authority they would not have known how to exercise it. Even Simnel. It was Mr Ferguson’s fault, as he had said. Moist steam, acids in the colours, oxalic acid …

  She said: ‘Is the cloth going straight to the steaming or is there a delay?’

  ‘Pretty near straight to it, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, it’s a fine day. Can’t you hold it up for two hours and let it air? Then perhaps you could cut the moisture by about a third and see if it helps. Is that possible, Mr Trant?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We can try it.’

  She glanced at Simnel, who was pursing his lips. ‘Of course, that doesn’t solve anything, but it’s worth trying. I can’t help but think … Mr Fry, is it the same dye that you used last month?’

  ‘Aye, just same. Madder’s a new lot, but it’s just same composition.’

  She said: ‘Well, will you hold up the printing and make sure the madder is all right? It might have got acid in it or too much salts or something of that sort.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Mr Fry sulkily. ‘I saw to it meself. It’s just same composition as last lot.’

  She said quietly: ‘ Well, take Mr Forrest along with you, and you can examine it together.’

  They went out. They were not very well satisfied, but they’d had their orders and although they grumbled they respected her more than they had done.

  Thereafter followed a morning of anxiety. She knew how quietly they would come in if her ideas were wrong, how scrupulous they would be not to show any sati
sfaction they might be feeling. An hour passed before Mr Forrest came in and the fact that Mr Fry was not with him struck a hopeful note.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘There’s too much oil in the madder, ma’am. Far too much. I don’t know how it happened; it may be carelessness or faulty mixing or poor ingredients.’

  Her heart leapt, ‘Would that account for–’

  ‘Oh, yes, entirely.’

  ‘Have we much of it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just newly mixed.’

  ‘Well, thank you. Will you tell Mr Fry to get some fresh – and not to throw the old away yet. Mr Ferguson will decide what to do with it.’

  ‘Very well, ma’am.’

  Inwardly bubbling with joy, she carefully went through some unnecessary accounts until Simnel turned up again just after noon. He carried a piece of cloth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ferguson,’ he said, ‘the airing doesn’t seem to have done much good. It’s marked less, but it’s still marking. It won’t pass.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and told him the news Forrest had brought. He listened without change of expression.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s good. But we must find who’s at fault. What have you told them? Very well, but it’ll mean rearranging our work for the week.’

  She looked at him, just as scrupulously not to show any of her triumph. ‘ Yes, I expect so. Perhaps you’d help me to do that now.’

  In the afternoon she met Stephen some distance from the Grove, and they drove out to Burnage. The trees had lost their first yellow and were all copper and gold. The leaves lay thick in the lanes and made agreeable crunchy sounds under the wheels of the carriage. The hazy sun sent searchlights through the trees, and the cottages lay like old brown loaves long baked by the summer. They drove on to Northenden and had tea at an old inn by the river. The water had silk patches on it and dark broken shadows under the banks. They talked very little, being happy in each other’s company and content with the memories of last week. This morning seemed to her a thousand miles away; it remained with her as something agreeable, a little pleasant triumph in the back of her mind, in a backwater of her life. This, her association with Stephen, was the main current. Several times she nearly told him about it, but a sense of shyness stopped her.