Jessie's Promise

by Rosie Clarke

  Jessie hesitated. She felt awkward about eating her lunch now. Ma had always said it was rude to eat in public.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she asked. ‘It’s just that I’m hungry…’

  The man looked up from his paper, which he’d opened as soon as he sat down, and frowned. She wasn’t wearing her best costume or a hat and she didn’t think he had remembered her. Why should he? He’d hardly looked at her on the tram and she doubted that he’d noticed her in Archie’s shop; he’d seemed intent on what he was after, a book Archie had kept for him.

  ‘Why should I mind?’ he asked. ‘Eat your lunch if you’re hungry, lass. If I’d thought to bring something I’d join you.’

  He spoke well but there was a faint burr of North Country in his voice. She hadn’t noticed it on the tram, but his tone was much friendlier today, less harsh and clipped, and his mouth was softened by a faint smile. Clearly he was in a better mood than he had been a day or so earlier.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Jessie asked and offered the tin. ‘I’ve got loads here. My aunt always gives me far too much. The sausage rolls are really good but I shan’t eat them all.’

  It was his turn to hesitate now but instead of snapping her head off as she’d feared he might, he grinned and helped himself to a sausage roll.

  ‘Your aunt is a good cook,’ he said after he bit into it, and he wolfed it down in a couple of munches. ‘I don’t think I’ve tasted better.’

  ‘Have another and a sandwich,’ Jessie encouraged. ‘I don’t feel so rude if you’re eating too. Ma used to clip my ear if I ate in the street, but it’s a long way to Devon and I had my breakfast early.’

  ‘I didn’t get time to eat anything,’ he said. ‘I almost missed the train as it was.’ Jessie was offering the tin and after a moment’s pause he helped himself to a paste sandwich and another sausage roll. ‘My name is Paul… Smith. It’s very generous of you to share your meal with me, miss.’

  ‘Jessie Hale. I’m glad to have a bit of company. I’ve been travelling for ages and it seems forever.’

  ‘I caught the train a few stops back,’ he said. ‘I’ll be getting off again soon.’

  ‘Oh…’ Jessie wondered if she had made a mistake. Perhaps he wasn’t the angry young man from the tram; he certainly wasn’t displaying signs of anger or aggression now. ‘I’ve come from London this morning.’

  ‘I was in London the day before yesterday. I’m travelling light, moving about the country for my work. I shall be somewhere else the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you a salesman?’ Jessie was curious.

  He gave a soft chuckle, and there was amusement in his eyes, as if he were laughing at a secret joke. ‘Of a sort I suppose. Yes, you could say that. I sell ideas, talk to people about things.’ Jessie offered the tin again but he shook his head. ‘No thanks. It was good of you to share, but keep the rest for later; you might get hungry again.’

  Jessie put the tin away. The train was slowing to a halt and she could see several people on the platform waiting to get on. A man and two women came into the carriage and sat down. The young man who had shared her lunch picked up his paper. As the train began to move off again Jessie heard a man’s voice in the corridor asking for tickets. He went into the carriage next door and she opened her bag to look for her ticket just as Paul Smith got to his feet and started to leave.

  He dropped his paper. Bending down to pick it up Jessie saw that it was two days old. He frowned as she handed it to him, seeming almost in a hurry to leave and not bothering to say goodbye, which was odd after the friendly way they had talked. It was only a few seconds after he’d closed the carriage door that the ticket inspector opened it again. The thought that perhaps Mr Smith had been trying to avoid him crossed her mind, but she dismissed it almost at once. Surely she was wrong! He couldn’t have been travelling without a ticket?

  Yet it might fit in with what he’d told her, she realised. He hadn’t told her what kind of a job he actually did; only that he was selling something. Just how did you sell ideas? Unless he was an inventor? Yet wouldn’t he have been carrying a case with drawings or papers of some kind? All he’d appeared to have with him was the newspaper, though his luggage could be in the guard’s van as hers was, of course. Jessie frowned. He’d told her he was travelling light – was he also trying to avoid paying his fare?

  Perhaps the reason he hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning was because he had no money to buy it. Jessie believed that she might have hit on the truth and was glad she had given him some of her food. If he couldn’t pay his fare or buy food he must be out of work. And he wasn’t the only one!

  Then she remembered he had bought a book from Archie and he’d paid his fare on the tram, because she’d seen him. So perhaps her imagination was taking a leap too far?

  She glanced at her own paper for a moment, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the man who had shared her lunch and wishing she had offered her paper to him. He must have found the old one on the station. Perhaps he’d picked it up hoping to find a job advertised? Perhaps he was travelling in the hope of finding work?

  Oh, why was she bothering? It wasn’t her business. There were a lot of men out of work. She remembered the match seller in London. At least he had been trying to earn a few pence honestly. Until the government sorted things out a lot of people might be tempted to travel without a ticket if they dared.

  Glancing out of the window as the train pulled into the next station she caught sight of Paul Smith getting off. He wasn’t carrying any luggage but there was no sign of the inspector so it looked as if he might have got away with it this time. Now why did that please her? She ought to have been outraged as a member of the fare-paying public that he had cheated the railway, but she wasn’t.

  She looked at the station clock. It was nearly twelve and she had another hour or more before she reached her destination. She took out her book and began to read.

  *

  The station was a small one with a short platform and a small wooden building with a picket fence and a neat garden, which seemed to be the stationmaster’s home but nothing more. Jessie felt a little uncertain as she alighted because it seemed so empty with no newspaper stands or booths selling hot drinks as there were in London and the larger stations. However, the porter who helped her fetch her cases from the guard’s van assured her that she’d come to the right place.

  ‘Where do you want to go, miss?’ he asked as he carried both her pieces of luggage to the pretty little cottage and set them down on a green painted wooden bench outside. ‘Would you be the young lady expected up at the Hall?’

  ‘Yes.’ She felt a surge of relief although she was also surprised that it should be known she was arriving that day. ‘Kendlebury Hall. I was told to phone from the office when I got here.’

  ‘No need to do that, miss. Tom Carter’s waiting for you in the yard beyond the station with the Daimler. We don’t get many visitors here; mostly parcels, crates and livestock in the guard’s van. Visitors usually take the mainline to Torquay. Quicker that way, see. Only locals use this line as a rule, and they don’t travel often.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said. ‘Where did you say the yard was?’

  ‘I’ll take you there, miss. Nothing much else for me to do. You were the only one to get off and there’s no freight today.’

  Jessie thanked him. She was feeling a bit strange, because it seemed so quiet and isolated, very different from the bustle of London. She could see a few houses in the distance, but the station was away from the small village, which was really no more than a hamlet. She’d had to change to a branch line to get here because the main line didn’t serve the outlying areas. Jessie thought it was easy to see why and wasn’t surprised when the porter told her he was also the stationmaster. The railway couldn’t make much of a profit from stations like this, she thought. It was a wonder they didn’t close it down, especially when there was a better route to the busy main stations.

  She was glad of the fri
endly porter’s help as the yard was quite a distance to walk, especially if she’d been carrying her own luggage. She saw a man wearing a pale-grey uniform and a chauffeur’s cap; he was leaning against a rather impressive car but straightened up as he saw her and came to take the bags from her obliging helper.

  ‘You’ll be Miss Hale then,’ he said and grinned at her. ‘I’m glad you turned up, miss. Cook said you would change your mind at the last minute and I’d be wasting my time comin’ to meet you. I bet her two bob you would come. She’ll be hoppin’ mad when she has to pay up!’

  He opened the front passenger door for her. She caught the smell of leather and polish as she slid into the comfortable seat. This was real luxury!

  ‘Might as well sit up front as in the back,’ he said with what she thought might be a flirtatious look. ‘I’m Carter – chauffeur and handyman up at the Hall. I keep the cars in going order, chop wood or anything else I’m asked to do – within reason. If you want to go into Torquay on your afternoon off it’s me who’ll be taking you and fetching you off the train when you come back. You could walk from the station of course; it’s a tidy step but manageable when it’s fine. As long as you say when you’re coming back I don’t mind fetchin’ you, miss. I could wait in town for you if you don’t want to stay too long.’

  ‘That’s very obliging of you, Carter,’ she said, glancing at his profile. She caught a glimpse of dark hair slightly streaked with grey beneath his cap, and noticed the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He wasn’t a young man by any means, but he had a friendly manner and seemed decent enough. ‘Shall we see how things go for a while? I might not even bother to go out much for a start. I shall probably want to get to know my surroundings, and I enjoy walking when I have the time.’

  ‘You don’t want to stay here on your free afternoon,’ he said. ‘If Madam knows you’re around she’ll find something for you to do. You take my advice and go somewhere on your free days. Employers are all the same, give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.’

  Jessie laughed. At least there was someone here she could talk to, she thought. ‘Tell me what Mrs Kendle is like,’ she prompted. ‘Is she difficult to work for – very demanding?’

  ‘She’s not too bad as long as you don’t get on the wrong side of her,’ Carter said. ‘Sir Joshua can be a bit of a grouch, but the old lady is lovely and the captain… he’s not so bad underneath. He has his better days, but keep out of his way when he’s in a mood.’

  ‘I’ve met Captain Kendle in London,’ Jessie said. ‘He wasn’t very friendly.’

  ‘The captain doesn’t mince his words – and he doesn’t take much notice of the ladies, doesn’t matter whether they’re of his class or servants. He hardly looks at them these days.’

  ‘Surely he looks at his wife?’

  ‘He’s polite to her but that’s as far as it goes I’d say,’ Carter replied. ‘The little girl is two now – the captain and his wife got on all right until that last time…’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Cook says it was his wound that changed him, but I ain’t so sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jessie looked at him in surprise. ‘I know Captain Kendle was ill but where was he wounded? You’re not suggesting that he isn’t… that he can’t…’

  ‘That he isn’t a proper man anymore? No, at least not for any physical reason,’ Carter said and frowned. ‘It could be a mental problem, of course, but he was wounded in the arm and chest – nothing that prevents him from doing his duty, as you might say. He just doesn’t seem interested, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Jessie said. She was slightly shocked at this turn of conversation; they ought not to be discussing their employers like this! ‘You can’t know what goes on in the privacy of their bedroom.’

  ‘They have separate rooms, and he never visits her in hers – at least that’s what Alice says, and she should know. She makes their beds and cleans the rooms. She told Cook that the second pillow never gets used.’

  ‘Not conclusive,’ Jessie said with a little frown. She wasn’t sure why she was taking this stand, but it seemed wrong to write someone off that way, and she was uncomfortable with details of things she felt should be private. ‘I’m not sure we ought to be discussing such things, Carter. It isn’t really any of our business – is it?’

  ‘No, but it’s natural, see. They’re our family and we like to know they’re all right. Lady Kendle is worried about them, I know that much.’ He pulled a wry face at her. ‘I’m the one what carries her about, see. She can’t walk, can’t hardly get out of bed, but she likes to look at the garden. I carry her down and push her about in the bath chair when it’s fine. She always thanks me and she talks to me, just little things, that’s how I know she’s worried about her son and his wife. She often talks to me about the old days, her memories, the early days of her marriage, and I think she is unhappy about the way things are since the war. I heard Sir Joshua tell his wife that the captain must have a lady friend he visits, but I don’t think that’s right. You can always tell when that sort of thing is going on, see, and it ain’t – not to my way of thinking.’

  Jessie found herself sympathising with Captain Kendle all of a sudden. It must be irritating for a private man, which by all accounts he was, to have everyone so interested in his every movement.

  She forgot about the captain and his troubles as the car swept round a bend and entered the estate through a pair of tall iron gates, which were opened wide and wedged back by tufts of grass and debris that had accumulated over time. There was a small red brick gatehouse but the windows were thick with cobwebs on the inside and it was clear it hadn’t been used for a while. They drove for some minutes between dense trees to either side, some of which had grown over into an arch in parts. It was dark through the trees and when they emerged into the open once more she saw that there was a gravel drive leading up to the house – but what a house! Jessie craned forward to catch a better sight of the building as they crunched their way towards it.

  Her first thought was that it was beautiful, golden and lovely, built of a honey-coloured stone with white pillars forming a sort of portico at the front entrance and steps leading up to the veranda that ran along the front and the side of the house. The windows were long and narrow with small squared panes of glass, the door massive and made of a dark oak that time had turned almost black. Lawns surrounded it on all sides, and there were rose beds under the verandas, the trailing varieties curling up over the balustrades, mixing with jasmine and honeysuckle. At one end there was an annexe leading into what seemed to be a kind of gallery with long glass windows and a domed roof, though she only caught a glimpse as they swept round the side to the back of the house. She asked Carter what they had just passed and he told her it was called the Orangery, though no one bothered with it these days, which was rather a waste, Jessie thought.

  She imagined the house would look wonderful in summer when the roses hung there in clusters, and the scent in the house through the open windows must be marvellous at times. The gardens themselves were extensive and quite beautiful. Some little distance from the house she could just see a small lake shimmering in the winter sunshine and there were a couple of tiny buildings that must be summerhouses but looked like temples from the fables she had read as a child.

  It wasn’t a huge house by country house standards, for Jessie had seen and admired pictures of some of the great English country houses; though she had never actually visited one. Aunt Elizabeth had told her that some of them were open to the public at certain times of the year and they’d often spoken of visiting one day, but somehow they’d never got round to it, perhaps because of the war.

  She thought that this house looked as if it was a family home, used and loved rather than a showplace. She saw a gardener with a wheelbarrow and a rake; he seemed to be clearing up debris, bits of wood that had fallen from the trees that bordered the lawns, a few weeds and stones tossed in his barrow. He was leaning on his brush handle, smo
king a cigarette, taking his time to look about him and enjoy his work rather than rush at it, and she thought that he was quite elderly.

  ‘How many gardeners does Sir Joshua employ?’ she asked Carter as he drew the car to a halt in the courtyard at the rear of the house. ‘It must take several to look after this place’

  ‘There’s just Fred Dobson, his son Ned, and Jethro Wylie’s boy on a regular basis these days,’ he replied as he switched off the engine. ‘The captain does some of the tree work himself sometimes, and when they are slack on the farm he gets some of the men to come in and do the heavy jobs. Fred is really only up to the titivating these days, though he keeps the kitchen garden a treat, always plenty of vegetables for the table. There used to be nearer a dozen outside men once upon a time; the gates were always kept shut in them days with a man to open and close them every time, and there were several grooms and all.’

  Jessie remembered what Mrs Carmichael had said about the family not being as well off as it had been once, but she didn’t comment. Carter was getting out of the car. He took her bags from the boot and motioned for her to follow him towards what looked like the kitchen door, but was actually a sort of back lobby. The kitchen was to the left just inside a small dark hall, and Carter waved an arm towards it.

  ‘I’ll take these bags to your room, miss,’ he said. ‘Go into the kitchen and Cook will give you a cup of tea. She’ll send someone to let Mrs Pearson know you’re here, and she’ll show you the ropes. Mrs Kendle is out this afternoon, but she’ll be back later. She drove herself in the roadster; it’s the captain’s two-seater but Madam uses it when he’s in town, because she prefers it to being driven in the Daimler.’

  Jessie thanked him and went into the kitchen, which was big enough to have dropped Aunt Elizabeth’s whole downstairs into and still left room over. The floor was of soft brown tiles that Jessie knew would look red when wet, worn smooth in places by the passage of many feet over the years. Under the windows were three deep sinks with wooden draining boards between them and at one end a huge black iron range for cooking; there was an old-fashioned spit hanging above it and large ovens to either side of the hob. Jessie’s aunt cooked on a similar though much smaller range. A long scrubbed pine table ran down the middle of the room and there were various dressers against the walls, set with blue and white china and a medley of cooking utensils. The room smelled of herbs and baking, and there was a small open fire opposite the window, with a wooden grandfather chair placed at either side.