Five hours later, Charlie had stood on the docks at Liverpool, waiting to board a cargo ship that would take him up along the coast to Glasgow. With a reference and good wishes from a fellow henpecked husband, Charlie was free to start a new life at the Govan Shipyard. He had stayed in the employment of J&G Thomson, the shipbuilders, until one day, having spent some of his leisure time exploring along the coast of Argylle, he had fallen in love with the wild beauty of the Isle of Mull, where otters splashed in the gurgling rivers and eagles nested in the shadowy mountains. It was just a short hop on a boat from Oban, where he had sometimes stayed overnight in a large three-storey house run as a bed and breakfast by a doughty Scots woman. Being enticed to return often by her delicious tasting haggis and the promise of a comfortable chest to lay his head on should he ever need to, he had made inquiries at the Tobermory Hotel, a 200 year old hostelry formed from a row of fishermen’s cottages, on the likelihood of being able to rent a bit of land in the area to start a market garden. He had done rather well from his leap of faith into the future. He had managed to put a little aside under his mattress and had a small bank account on the mainland as well.
Charlie stood outside his mother’s cottage. It looked shabby, the walls needing a coat of whitewash, but surprisingly the nets in the window had benefited from a good soaking in the dolly tub. He hesitated, as a tremor of fear clutched at him, suddenly giving him a taste of bile as his thoughts went to Mary. Perhaps he had been foolish returning after all these years. She would probably give him a thumping and, if he was fair, she was entitled to. He had left her without his weekly wage; she didn’t always get casual work and she would have been a figure of derision with her husband disappearing as he had. Though she had her family, he reasoned, who would have rallied around to help her. Who was to say he had hopped off and left her anyway? He could have lost his footing as he walked along the riverbank and disappeared under the waters of the Mersey, just as his father was supposed to have done. He took a breath, hoping that his chest, which had benefited greatly from the Scottish air up to now, wouldn’t start wheezing in his anxiety, then pushed the latch on the wooden door and stepped inside.
The woman, dressed in black, with sparse white hair, had been standing at the foot of the stairs with a look of surprise on her face at the stranger who had walked through the door unannounced and made a beeline for the poker. No one was going to trifle with Jessica Parsons, even if she was seventy-three. Brandishing the poker menacingly, she approached Charlie, who had put his arms up in a surrender position.
“What’s yer business? Coming in ‘ere as if yer owned the place, I’ll give yer a flat head with me poker, yer’ll see.”
“Don’t you recognise me, Mrs Parsons?” Charlie said in a calm voice, trying to reassure the old lady that she knew him well, if she could just see beyond the facial hair.
“I remember the voice,” she said, hesitant now, but still clutching her poker, thinking her life was dependent on it.
“It’s Charlie, Janey Wilson’s son. I used to go to school with your Albert. Don’t you remember that we lived in this house up until near on ten years ago?”
“Charlie.” Mrs Parsons sat down heavily upon the sofa, still clutching the poker. “They said yer were dead. That wife of yours told everyone yer’d gone off on a secret mission to the Orkney’s, wherever that is, and the ship sank just off Scotland on the way. She said that man from the shipyard told her, when she went to see why yer ‘adn’t come ‘ome.”
Good old Mr Hammond, thought Charlie, grateful that his supervisor had come up with a convincing tale of derring-do on Charlie’s part. “So where is Mary now and what are you doing here?”
“I’ll answer yer second question first, Charlie. Albert got me the tenancy when me old ‘ouse was pulled down by the council, flippin’ beggars. All ter do with the road widening fer the new oil terminal, and yer won’t like me other answer about Mary. She died giving birth to yer babby, nine months after yer ship ‘ad gone down. Yer were lucky, they said there weren’t no survivors, but I’ve heard tell of folk bein’ pulled from the waters and lost their memories.”
“Aye, it was something like that.” Charlie sat beside her on the sofa. Suddenly his legs had buckled, when he heard what had happened to Mary. How come she was having a baby when they hadn’t properly done the deed? He knew now from listening to the confidences of his Oban landlady that babies weren’t brought in a bag by the midwife.
“Did the baby live?” Charlie couldn’t help but ask her, though what he would do if the answer was yes, he didn’t know.
“No, both of them perished, so I heard. That mother of hers sold all yer furniture so that they could ‘ave a big send off fer Mary at The Grapes Hotel, though there’s an old sea chest still sittin’ on the landin’. They don’t live round ‘ere now, they got a place up the North End. Our Albert got me most of this lot on the provident, as my stuff was only fit fer firewood. Can I get yer a cup of tea, Charlie? Yer lookin’ right peaky. Whatever yer’ve bin doin’ though ‘as put a bit of weight on yer.”
“I’ve a market garden up in Scotland,” he replied, trying to make his voice sound even, though in truth he was in shock over Mary’s behaviour. She must have been seeing someone else on the sly, the dirty mare. “It’s doing well, though at this time of year the ground is solid, so there’s not much to do until the spring.”
“Aye, that’ll be right, yer mother had what they called the green fingers, God rest her. I’m sure she’d be glad to ‘ear yer’ve followed in ‘er footsteps. So how long are yer stoppin’ for? Cause if yer’ve got nothing fixed yer can stop ‘ere and keep me company?”
“That would be good, Mrs Parsons. I never even gave it a thought really; I just got on the train at Glasgow and here I am.”
“You always were a dreamer, Charlie. You can sleep on the sofa down ‘ere, our Albert says it’s very comfortable.”
“I’d like that Mrs Parsons. It’ll only be for a couple of days.”
“Is that you Lily?” Hannah Griffiths lay on her bed and had heard the door to her room open.
“Yes, Mother. I thought you might like me to make you a cup of tea. The kettle has boiled and I was just going to make myself a cup.”
“That would be nice. I must get up and help you in the kitchen. Fortunately, your father is going to his club in Oxton this evening, so there will be just the three of us for dinner.”
In the nine years since Lily had left her home to live at Brookvale, there had been many changes in the Griffith household. Grand-mama had gone to her rest seven years before; Ellen, surprisingly for such a mouse of a girl, had married the postman (no wealthy man to be found for her); Bertha, of course, had married Lawrence, not with such a fanfare as Lily’s wedding had been, but she waited for his leaves in the Patterson family house on Temple Road, where she was happily raising their three children and caring for two elderly maiden aunts; Henrietta married her curate, who was now a rector in a living in Yorkshire, had four plump offspring and was expecting another. That left Mabel, poor Mabel, who still had that skeleton in the cupboard; Frederick, who was now an Oxford graduate and was about to enter the world of commerce, based in London, coming home to visit occasionally; and Lily, made a widow in 1903.
It was two years since Queen Victoria had died and the ascension to the throne of Edward, the deceased monarch’s son. To say that Lily was a sorrowing widow would be a fabrication. When the letter had arrived at Brookvale to say that her husband, Major De Crosland, had died serving his country fighting the Boers in Africa, there had been something of a relief. She had been all alone after Lydia had died, the poor soul having succumbed to a fatal injury whilst chopping up logs in readiness for winter, so Lily had been wanting to leave the old place anyway.
Whatever had happened to the money that Roland had been given by Lily’s father on her marriage must have slipped through her husband’s fingers, as no repairs or renovations had been made to the house. The roof at the back of the house leake
d down the walls of the master bedroom and the chimney sweep had refused to come, as his last bill was still outstanding. It could be a bleak place at any time of the year, but the winters were the worst, when snow would drift to the hedge tops along the country lanes and they could be cut off for days.
Things had come to a head when the family solicitor, a man who had been associated with the De Croslands for many years and had been involved in selling off much of the ‘family jewels’ on their behalf, visited the house after Lydia’s funeral to say that it was a distant relative of the De Croslands who was to inherit Brookvale. The place had been willed via the male issue of the family, so even Roland’s sister, wherever she was on God’s Earth, wouldn’t have been entitled to the mouldering pile.
The news hadn’t affected Lily too much; she could still hold her head up in the family, play the grieving widow, throw away the sham of a wedding ring that had caused her finger to turn green and return to live in Rosemount Terrace, perhaps being allowed a career in time. Her only regret, and it could have been because both Bertha and Harriet had produced a brood of children and she hadn’t even given birth to one, was that she and Roland had never quite got it together in the ensuing years in the marriage bed. She, with great distaste for such an act after listening to the graphic details from her mother-in-law, had distanced herself from her husband as much as she could and Roland, obedient to his mother’s wish for him to settle down and marry well to enhance the De Crosland fortunes, found it difficult to perform with a woman when he was attracted to men instead.
They had settled for polite acceptance of each other’s frailties, after one attempt to make a baby early on in their marriage had caused a lot of frustration to both concerned. Lily, sickened by the whole rigmarole of having to stroke the limp member that Roland had thrust into her hand, then his insistence that she turn to face the window while he mounted her from behind, was quite determined there would not be a repeat performance. For Lydia’s sake they had put on an affectionate front, being far too well bred and civilized to talk through their problems together, which had left the would-be grandma to wonder why no child had been produced.
“It is a great shame that Henrietta lives so far away in Yorkshire,” Hannah said, getting to her feet slowly, as having lain for many years on her bed recovering from all the births she had been put through she had put on a vast amount of weight. “Now that her fifth child is nearly imminent, perhaps we could have helped her with the other four.”
“I am sure that Henrietta will cope very well without us, Mother. She is very capable and I am sure their maid would give a hand with the children if it was necessary.”
“Yes, I was always grateful for any help I could get in the early years. Grand-mama used to lend a hand occasionally and your father paid for a succession of young women to help me, just as he has made an allowance for Henrietta’s maid.”
Lily hid a smile at the news that Grand-mama had lent a hand occasionally; somehow she couldn’t visualise the matriarch of the family changing the soiled cloths of her daughter’s children.
“I have prepared a light dinner for the three of us,” Lily continued, feeling a sense of pride that now she was virtually in charge of the kitchen she could make decisions regarding their meals, whereas before it was always Bertha’s domain. “I thought a slice of steak and kidney pie left over from last night’s meal, with a steamed plum pudding for dessert.”
“That will be perfect, dear. Who would have thought you could have turned your hand to cooking, when according to Grand-mama you had no talents at all?”
“They were hidden under my bushel, Mother.” Lily was well aware that it was only because of Lydia’s tutelage that she was proficient in any culinary aspect, as those months, even years, between leaves whilst Roland was away policing most of the British Empire, could have been very boring if it hadn’t of been for her mother-in-law. Not only had Lily become adept at cooking, preserving and bottling, she knew how to nurture a vegetable patch, skin a rabbit, pluck a chicken, make a patchwork quilt, crochet a shawl and repair the soles of her shoes. She had learnt to clean the kitchen with emery powder, used methylated spirit and a leather cloth to polish glass, clean silver with a solution of chalk, ammonia, alcohol and water and wash clothes with a blue bag. All this knowledge was needed to maintain the precarious living that she and Lydia had to endure.
There had been no social life other than if Lydia and she were invited to Griffiths or Patterson family occasions, such as weddings or christenings, or occasionally they walked on a Sunday to Greasby Parish Church. Once they had got invited to Redstone House at the bottom of Mill Hill Lane, when the Dockerty’s had held a fundraising event in their garden.
Life had become one long round of make-do and mend. The allowance that Lily still very kindly received from her father went towards keeping the two women above the poverty level.
There were no new clothes and a lot of Lily’s fashionable clothes that she had brought with her were adapted or left to rot in the wardrobe. If there was such a thing as a regimental dinner, which happened to coincide with one of her husband’s leaves, when Lily could have worn her finery, she had no knowledge of them, nor was she invited to be friends with any of the other army wives. Sometimes she and Lydia would have a rare day out and travel with the farmer’s wife, Mrs Thornton, who now had the ownership of a horse and trap to take her wares to Birkenhead Market. This enabled them to purchase a roll of durable cloth to replace their worn out skirts and jackets, or a length of cotton material suitable for making under garments. Food could have been in short supply, if it had not been for the generosity of the kindly farmer’s wife. In the winter they had to live off the hens that pecked in their backyard, the fruit from the orchard and the abundant rows of brassicas in their vegetable patch.
There were many times when Lily had despaired of the luxurious life she had given up at Rosemount, replacing the frivolity of her youth with the day-to-day hardship she had endured. Stubborn pride made her reluctant to return to the bosom of the family, where she would be reminded that Lawrence had chosen Bertha to be his wife instead of her, though maturity now made her realise she shouldn’t be clinging to such a foolish infatuation. Also the great affection she had developed for Lydia was enough to keep her from abandoning Brookvale, though once the good woman had passed away, there didn’t seem much point to it at all.
“Pass the salt, dear,” Hannah said, as she, Lily and Mabel sat together later at the well-scrubbed kitchen table. The dining room was only used when Mannion was home, as he still liked to be seen as the head of the family. “Have you been busy today, Mabel?” she asked, once Lily had passed down the condiment.
“Yes, Mother. Now that Advent is almost upon us, we are busily making Christmas wreaths, floral displays and sheaths of holly and ivy for decorating hearth and home.”
“You must remember to bring me a holly wreath, dear. I do like the new fashion of hanging a wreath from a nail on the door. It is very welcoming.”
Mabel nodded obediently. Still affected by what had happened to her at Montgomery Hall, she was a typical spinster of her time. Thin, gaunt even, she wore an all-encompassing floor length green serge dress, high necked, with wrist length buttoned sleeves and not a glimpse of a well turned ankle in her black comfortable shoes. Mother, on the other hand, had taken to wearing a type of kaftan, made by a local seamstress who was clever at hiding rolls of fat. Lily, of the three, looked far more fashionable in a dark brown ankle length skirt and a matching cream peplum jacket over a white chemise, having changed from her shabby overall earlier. Mannion had been more than generous on his daughter’s return, treating Lily to a whole new wardrobe of fashionable clothes. The evening dress of guipure lace over a lining of dark blue linen was her favourite.
One time, in a moment of confidence, when the two sisters had found themselves alone after Mother had retired to bed, Mabel seemed to be about to spill the beans to her younger sister. It had happened when Lily had remarked that
in all the time she had been away at Brookvale, and at all the family occasions she had attended, there had never been a glimpse of Uncle Bunkum. That was the name the children had christened Aunt Patricia’s husband, when they had stayed at Montgomery Hall during the holidays. He had been a loathsome chap as far as they were concerned, full of swagger and bluster.
Mabel had been rather guarded as she started to make her usual derogatory remarks about the male of the species, but this time their uncle was included and as Lily had still not lost her nosiness, she pressed her sister to tell her more. It appeared there had been an incident when Mabel had gone to stay at Montgomery Hall. It had happened when her sister had returned from the tennis court after a lively match against one of her cousins.
“I was feeling rather hot, perspiring a lot and had decided to put my racquet into the bedroom, then go to have a nice, cool bath. I thought I was alone… but… No, I can’t talk about it, Lily. Some things are better left in the past and for the sake of the family I should let things lie.”
She had clammed up and wouldn’t be drawn into what had happened next, though Lily was sure now it had been something distasteful in the bedroom department and had to do with Aunt Patricia’s husband. Of course Lily could also have had a tale to tell of a man’s imperfection, but there was no one that she would have confided in and probably never would.
Her Heart's Desire Page 11
