The Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  She swept from the office and Miss Robbins watched her go with mixed feelings. She muttered, ‘God help your brother with a woman like you for a sister!’ and turned back to her typewriter.

  Dilys walked along the street in deep displeasure. The arrogance of the young woman, she thought. She was now on her way to meet Hettie at Miss Maude’s Teashop and had expected to have the names and details of at least two housekeepers for them to consider. Instead she had nothing to show for her efforts and had been casually treated by an impertinent young madam. No doubt Hettie would have something scathing to say about her failure.

  Miss Maude’s Teashop had always been a favourite meeting place of theirs. The sandwiches were wafer thin, the biscuits home-made and not too hard for ageing teeth, and the selection of cakes so tempting that Dilys regularly succumbed and had two. When she reached the tea shop Hettie had not arrived so she chose a table by the window from which they could watch passers-by, and settled herself to await her sister. It was a small, cosy place in which to chat with polished wooden tables and chairs, walls decorated with shelves full of quaint pottery and half a dozen water colours painted by local artists.

  Her thoughts drifted to the matter in hand and from there to the Pennington family in general. Not a very productive group, she reflected with some regret. Hardly a united family – two brothers and a sister and only two children between them. Yet their maternal aunt had had three children and their Uncle Henry, on their father’s side, had married twice and fathered eight.

  A waitress approached, complete with gingham apron and a neat cap. Dilys ordered a plate of mixed sandwiches for two and a selection of cakes. ‘Including two cream slices, please.’

  The waitress smiled. ‘They are always a favourite with our customers.’

  ‘I’m waiting for my sister and we both like them.’

  At the thought of the little feast to come, she felt marginally better and by the time Hettie arrived Dilys was smiling.

  After their greetings, the pot of tea and the sandwiches arrived.

  ‘You be mother,’ said Hettie and they were soon enjoying cucumber sandwiches while Dilys explained what had happened.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ her sister-in-law told her, ‘because this morning Albert searched through the advertisements and found a woman who wants a job as a housekeeper and she sounds reasonable. I cut it out for you.’ She produced the small slip of paper and handed it to Dilys.

  Respectable woman, late thirties, seeks employment as housekeeper within Bath area. Good references and further details on application.

  A telephone number followed.

  Dilys looked puzzled. ‘If she can afford a telephone, why does she need a job as a housekeeper?’

  ‘Dilys! Trust you to pour cold water on it!’

  ‘I’m sorry but . . . doesn’t it sound odd to you? We can’t be too careful.’

  ‘We can always telephone and ask her – in a roundabout way.’ Hettie shrugged.

  ‘We can certainly try her.’

  Hettie leaned forward. ‘There’s something else. I don’t want to mention this to Albert because you know how protective he is of Montague but –’ she lowered her voice – ‘if we’re truly worried about him, there’s such a thing as power of attorney!’

  Dilys’s eyes widened. ‘Power of attorney? But that’s only for people who’ve lost their reason. Montague’s only a bit vague.’

  ‘He is now.’ Hettie’s voice fell further so that Dilys had to lean forward to hear what she was saying. ‘But what if he gets worse? If he refuses to talk to us about money matters now and then becomes senile later . . . Do you see what I mean? We should bear it in mind for the future.’

  ‘But only if it becomes necessary.’ Dilys regarded her anxiously. ‘There’s been none of that in our family. Loss of reason, I mean – unless it has been kept from us. Hushed up, so to speak and I don’t think it has.’

  ‘“None of that”. For heaven’s sake, Dilys, I’m not suggesting Montague’s going to go out of his mind but . . . he might just get a little confused as he gets older and too confused to handle the money properly. Albert will never want to admit such a thing if he did but you and I might need to keep an eye on the situation. We ought to be ready if . . . if he ever asks for our help.’

  ‘But if he’s confused, he won’t know he needs help!’

  ‘Exactly!’ Hettie helped herself to the last cucumber sandwich and eyed her sister knowingly.

  Slowly Dilys nodded. ‘We’ll just bear it in mind,’ she said uneasily, ‘as a possibility.’

  Hettie nodded toward the cake stand. ‘You choose first,’ she offered.

  After a moment or two, while they ate in silence, Dilys said, ‘Do you remember when Cressida’s Aunt Maude was ill and she had to go out to Switzerland to look after her? I always thought it was all rather secretive. You don’t think her Aunt Maude lost her reason, do you? Montague might have kept it from us. Cressida rarely spoke about her trip when she returned and she did seem rather quiet.’

  Hettie hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure Montague would have told Albert. They’ve always been close.’

  ‘Close? How can you say that? To my way of thinking they have always been very competitive.’

  ‘Well, you have known them longer than I have but I feel Montague would have confided in his brother.’

  ‘Then why not in me? I’m his sister!’

  ‘He did confide in you, if you recall – and in me and in Albert. He told us her Aunt Maude had gone into an “emotional decline” over a rather awful fellow. A climber. It was a clear case of unrequited love. Poor old Maude! But then, Cressida was only a Pennington by marriage and she had no children so even if there had been . . . instability of mind, it was never passed on.’

  Dilys reached for a Bakewell tart. ‘This will have to be my last or I shan’t want any supper tonight.’ Feeling that they had probably said enough about family matters she changed the subject. ‘We’re running another soup kitchen tomorrow evening and I’m contributing two quarts of ham broth with barley and that means an early start to get the ham bones simmering. So much of the goodness is in the marrow of the bones . . .’

  At seven forty-five a.m. the following day the queue for the soup stretched outside the military Drill Hall and ten yards round the corner. It consisted of out of work men, homeless men, a few con men, probably more than one petty criminal and a sprinkling of destitute women – some with children and some alone. The ages ranged from an eleven-year-old runaway girl to an eighty-year-old man who moved at a snail’s pace on two improvised crutches.

  Dilys, standing inside the door, resplendent in an expensive apron, regarded them with compassion mixed with disgust. She headed the long trestle table and in front of her she commanded the large cooking pan which contained the ham broth she had made earlier. The alternative was vegetable stew.

  Beside her Marguerite Wilson, ensconced behind a pile of roughly cut bread, sighed with exasperation and said in a low voice, ‘How on earth do they allow themselves to become so dirty. A good wash would improve them and they would feel so much better.’

  Dilys shrugged. ‘I dare say they’d rather spend any money they have on food. Soap is hardly a priority if you have so little.’

  Behind them there were tables and chairs but she knew that some of the hungry would choose to sit on the floor with their backs to the wall, ignoring the niceties of spoons, preferring to drink straight from the bowls. It was a defensive measure they adopted early on in their situation and it meant that they could not be attacked from behind and robbed.

  They began promptly and the queue moved slowly. This was not because the supplicants were not in a hurry for their soup but because each person wanted to exchange a few words of conversation – a luxury they rarely enjoyed, due to their solitary lifestyle.

  A quarter of an hour passed but the queue continued and for some reason Dilys glanced up at the next man in the queue. He was tall and gaunt and she imagined
his scraggy beard and hair might have been nibbled by rats! Dilys shuddered. He wore shapeless worsted trousers and a collarless shirt and over both a long tattered coat that had lost all the buttons.

  He held out a tin bowl that had seen better days and she dipped her ladle into the large pan of soup and emptied it into the bowl.

  He whispered, ‘Give us a drop more, missus.’

  As she shook her head she caught sight of his eyes, a hard grey, narrowed and intense. ‘I’m sorry. You know it’s not allowed. One ladle-full per person.’

  ‘You spilt some –’ he lowered his voice – ‘Dilys.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’

  As he hesitated, Marguerite called sharply, ‘Please move on. There are many people still waiting.’

  He shuffled along, his face averted and, reaching the next table, received a large chunk of bread donated by one of the local bakers. He thanked no one, Dilys noted. As he moved further away he turned back to throw her a last spiteful glance.

  Marguerite lowered her voice, ‘People like him should be banned from the kitchen. He doesn’t deserve a free meal.’

  Dilys was struggling with a sick feeling in her stomach. Shocked, she turned to Marguerite and whispered, ‘He called me Dilys! I’m sure of it. How could he . . .?’

  ‘Called you by name? Of course he didn’t. You’re imagining things.’

  ‘No! He whispered it!’

  ‘It was probably “missus”.’

  ‘Missus? Do you think so?’

  ‘It rhymes with Dilys, doesn’t it, and much more likely than knowing your name.’

  ‘Missus? Could it have been?’ Relief flooded her. ‘I suppose so. A man like that couldn’t know my name.’ She forced a smile.

  ‘’Urry it up, for Gawd’s sake!’ A woman was next in the queue – small and old before her time. Her face was deeply lined and her wispy grey hair straggled from a matted woollen hat. She held out empty hands to show she had no bowl of her own.

  Dilys recognized her, reached for a bowl and re-dipped the ladle. ‘Good morning, Mrs Pegg.’ The woman was rather deaf and spent most of her time begging beside the church porch. Dilys watched as, without bothering to find a seat, Mrs Pegg moved a few feet away from the queue and drank the soup down at once, alternately blowing on it and sipping it noisily. She then handed back the bowl and rushed on to claim her bread.

  The queue seemed endless and before long Dilys felt the familiar ache developing in her back. It would be good to sit down when she reached home, enjoy a cup of tea and a biscuit and relish the solitude. Sometimes she wondered whether to give up this part of her charity work but then Hettie would gloat and say, ‘I told you it would be too much for you!’

  She dipped the ladle again, this time for a tramp she recognized. He went from house to house doing odd jobs for pennies. He had a skinny mongrel with him and Dilys knew that Marguerite would, as always, slip him an extra lump of bread for the dog. He and the dog would sit cheerfully together on the floor, sharing the small feast.

  Five minutes later the supply of soup ended and the unlucky few were given two lumps of bread by way of compensation. Dilys carried the large pan into the small kitchen where she washed it out and made her goodbyes. As she left the hall the three male volunteers were folding and stacking the tables and chairs.

  Fifteen minutes later she was back home, her feet resting on a footstool, enjoying her tea and biscuits.

  She had finally dozed off when the telephone rang.

  THREE

  ‘Dilys, it’s me, Hettie. How did it go this morning? I rang you earlier but there was no answer and I guessed you were running late. Same crowd as usual? Listen, I’ve been in touch with that woman who advertised as a housekeeper and she sounded reasonable. A Miss Locke. I suggested she meets us over at Montague’s place so he can meet her too.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, Hettie! You’re rambling on so. You say the two of you are going to meet at Montague’s? But when is this? You should have spoken to me first.’ She rubbed her eyes, still slightly drowsy from her brief sleep.

  ‘Sorry, Dilys, but I am rather rushed. It’s this coming Friday at eleven o’clock. I’ve checked with that girl at Montague’s and she says . . .’

  ‘But suppose it isn’t convenient for me to be there? I’ll have to check my diary. I have a feeling there’s something on Friday . . .’

  ‘Then please do check, Dilys. If necessary I’ll have to change the arrangements.’

  Muttering under her breath about Hettie’s lack of consideration, Dilys found her diary and discovered that the suggested date was not suitable.

  Hettie was not pleased and immediately changed her mind. ‘Then maybe we could go ahead without you and I’ll find out what the woman’s like and say we’ll let her know when I’ve consulted with you. How would that be?’

  Dilys hesitated, feeling that Hettie was somehow hustling her but on the other hand, she had things to do and wasn’t particularly keen to visit Montague so perhaps she should let Hettie deal with it in her own way.

  ‘As long as you tell her nothing is definite, Hettie,’ she conceded, ‘and you consult with me. As long as that’s clearly understood I’m happy. And see what else you can find out about Montague’s financial situation . . . and make sure that girl’s looking after him properly until the new housekeeper is in place. She’s only a slip of a thing and might neglect him. Whatever Miss Dutton’s faults, she did take care of him.’

  ‘I’ll see to everything and find out what I can but I’ll have to be discreet. I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon and—’

  ‘Will Albert go with you? To say a few words to his brother?’

  ‘He may do, he may not. You know Albert. Now I must rush. Goodbye Dilys.’

  Dilys replaced the receiver and stood for a moment or two, wondering uneasily if she had played into her sister-in-law’s hands. Had she allowed herself to agree to something which she might later regret? Thinking back she decided that Hettie certainly had rushed her into approving her plan of action. Her sister-in-law had used that strategy before, she recalled, frowning. Dilys had never forgiven her for hurrying the choice of fabric for her wedding dress when she had married John. Every time she looked at their wedding photograph she regretted that she had not chosen the beige silk, but at the time, Hettie had grown impatient and accused her of dithering and had talked her into the ivory brocade.

  If only Cressida had been her adviser, she thought with regret. She would have recognized that the beige silk would throw a soft warm colour into Dilys’s face whereas the ivory brocade was cold and unflattering to her complexion. Cressida had been as different to Hettie as chalk is to cheese. Refined and discreet summed her up nicely. She had never been one to trample over another’s sensibilities. John had admired her, she knew, but then most men were attracted to beauty. It was only to be expected.

  As she walked back into the sitting room, her thoughts reverted to Hettie. ‘Wretched woman!’ she said crossly. ‘Always so sure of herself!’

  Still, that was water under the bridge. With a positive effort, Dilys allowed her equanimity to return. Hettie had agreed to consult her before making any commitment to the new housekeeper and probably that was enough. Dilys would like to have been there but she could not absent herself from the extra choir practice. There was always a shortage of altos and she would have been sorely missed.

  That same evening Martha and Tom finished their supper and sat back, contented. Tom worked at Arnsby Farm, which was conveniently near, and he was valued for his work with the horses. While he would never be more than comfortably off from his wages, there was a little extra coming in each month and Martha was good at managing. Unlike many less fortunate, they mostly managed to pay their bills on time. Martha’s nightmare was the moment when the farmer took it into his head to mechanize the ploughing and suchlike. If he bought himself one of those noisy tractors he would get rid of the horses and that would be the end of Tom’s specialized work. He might even find himself de
moted to general farm labouring.

  Tom eyed the portion of minced beef pie that remained in the dish.

  ‘Enough for tomorrow?’ he asked, hoping she would say, ‘No. You finish it off.’

  She did not say that. She said, ‘Just about, if I do a few extra spuds.’

  He grinned. ‘Not sharing it with Monty, then?’

  ‘No. Our Daisy’ll be cooking him fishcakes most likely. She’s doing all right.’

  ‘Let’s hope so for his sake! We don’t want her to poison the old boy!’

  ‘Least she’s picking up a bit of extra money, till the new housekeeper turns up.’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’ He sat back, patting his stomach then gave her a quick sideways glance. ‘Did I see another jar of lemon curd in the larder?’

  Martha nodded. Her mother was fond of anything with lemon in it and regularly made jars of lemon curd. When she wanted to visit she made a gift the excuse.

  ‘Your ma’s been round then, sticking her nose in.’

  She shrugged. ‘She heard about Miss Dutton going.’

  ‘Oh yes? And what else?’

  ‘The usual. You know what she’s like.’

  Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Meddling in what doesn’t concern her!’

  ‘She thinks we should tell Daisy. She’s her grandma. She’s allowed to have an opinion, Tom.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Her opinion’s fine but she should keep it to herself. And not come round with her jars of lemon curd, telling us what we should and shouldn’t do! We’ll tell Daisy when the time’s right and not just to please your ma! You can tell her that from me.’

  ‘She means well, Tom.’

  ‘I expect Satan means well!’ He sat back with a sigh. ‘Anybody’d think it was the end of the world. Hundreds of kiddies are adopted and none the worse for that. In most cases a sight better off! At least they’re wanted by their new parents.’