Mary's Child

by Irene Carr

  ‘Well, I know something of Mr Parnaby.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your gentleman friend.’

  The girl shook her head, damp tendrils of hair swinging. ‘You’re mistaken. Vic’s name is Devereaux.’

  Chrissie’s answer was firm: ‘I’m not mistaken. I was at school with him. He doesn’t remember me but I was reminded of him not long ago. By a policeman. Has he proposed marriage? Is he waiting for a legacy or an inheritance, due any day now? Did he hire a carriage because he was afraid somebody might recognise you and ask questions if they saw you getting on a train in Sunderland late at night? Are you going to be married in, say, London?’ This was all guesswork based on Sergeant Burlinson’s comments a few months ago, but the girl’s face showed that Chrissie had hit the mark. She sat with a hand to her mouth, white faced now, still not wanting to believe but fearful.

  Chrissie sat down beside her and took her hand then urged her, ‘Tell me all about it.’

  Her name was Grace Lawrence and she was the daughter of a banker in Sunderland. Victor Parnaby, alias Devereaux, had told her his father was a banker in the City of London but Victor had refused to follow him into the family bank. ‘He said his father had thrown him out but he didn’t care because in a month he would inherit a fortune from a trust fund set up by his grandmother. But she was American and the fund is over there so he has to go to New York to claim it and he has to live in the United States. And that was all right because part of the estate was a ranch and he was going to run it.’

  He had struck up an acquaintance with her one day when she was walking on the seafront. He had talked of his life in London, painted a picture of a young man of good family and of the world. She agreed to meet him again and that meeting was the first of several. He went on to court her ardently, gave her presents, told her he loved her, proposed marriage, but warned her not to tell her father. ‘He said Daddy would write to his father and, of course, Daddy would be told that Vic was not suitable. Vic said young people like us should make our own way in a new country.’

  Chrissie said, ‘But you’ve got all your money with you.’

  Grace blinked and nodded, ‘He said we would need it just to tide us over, to help pay our passage to America. He said he would cheerfully go cheaply but he wanted to ship first class for my sake.’ She added hopefully, ‘He was going to pay the biggest share. He only wanted my money to help.’

  Chrissie said with deliberate brutality, ‘That promise was just a sprat to catch a mackerel. And anyway, have you seen his money? Or the boat tickets?’ Grace shook her head and Chrissie told her, ‘And you won’t.’ Then she asked, ‘Have you still got your money?’ And when the girl nodded, ‘That’s something saved, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Grace bit her lip. She said, ‘I hadn’t met anyone like him before.’

  Nor many young men, Chrissie thought. She knew she was younger than this girl in years, but in knowledge of the world could be her mother. And that prompted another question: ‘He told you not to tell your father about him but did you talk to your mother?’

  ‘Mummy died when I was young. Aunt Clara keeps house for father. I can’t talk to her about anything.’ Grace started to cry, the tears trickling down her cheeks.

  Chrissie dug into the pocket of her apron and found her handkerchief. She put an arm around Grace and dabbed at her wet face. ‘Don’t you worry, now.’

  Grace sobbed, ‘Are you sure? What will I do?’

  ‘Just sit here a minute and warm through.’ Chrissie left her by the fire, brought her a cup of tea, made her own dispositions and then waited for the return of Victor Parnaby.

  She heard him splashing up to the front door before he tried the handle and found it locked. He banged on it then and shouted, ‘I’m back! The blacksmith’s here to fix the wheel! Let me in!’

  Chrissie threw up the window of the bar and saw him standing under the dripping eave by the front door, just a few yards away. She called to him, ‘You’re not coming in and that girl isn’t coming out! I’ve told her who you are and what you were up to, Vic Parnaby!’

  That brought silence. He stared at her for a moment, his face a pale smudge in the darkness turned towards her. Then he strode towards the window. ‘Damn you! Let me in or I’ll—’

  Chrissie shoved the barrel of Lance’s gun out of the window and pointed it at him. ‘You’ll do nothing but get out of here! And don’t come back! You try to get in and I’ll fire!’

  That halted him a yard away. But then he sneered, ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ He took another pace, sideways, to edge past the gun. Chrissie pulled the trigger and the flame from the muzzle licked past his face, the crash of the shot deafening her. Victor Parnaby fell backwards into the mud but was on his feet again at once and running, kicking up spray. He stopped on the road and shouted from there, a frightened shadow. ‘You’re mad! You’re in there with a madwoman, Grace!’ Another shadow loomed a yard or two behind him: the blacksmith.

  Chrissie remembered the horse. ‘Get your horse out of the stable. And if you come back here again I’ll give you the other barrel!’ She pulled down the window, shutting out the wind and the rain, the smell of the wet earth. She dragged the curtains across and turned back to Grace Lawrence, who peered up at her wide eyed. Chrissie said, ‘I think bed will be the best place for you.’

  Chrissie put her in the Morgans’ bed with a stone hot-water bottle. Afterwards she sat on by the fire. She heard the splashing, trampling and cursing as Vic Parnaby recovered his horse from the stable, and later the clatter of its hooves and the drum of the iron-shod wheels of the carriage on the road as it left the Halfway House. So Parnaby had not gone back to Sunderland but on to Newcastle. He had decided to cut and run. She went to her own bed, making plans for the morrow.

  Morning brought a clear sky, a winter sun without warmth and a fresh smell to the earth. It also brought Lance and his family and Chrissie’s explanation: ‘This lady was visiting some friends near by yesterday and came here by mistake last night to catch the bus, so I put her up. Mr Morgan, I was wondering, if you’re not wanting the trap again today, and if you can spare me, I’m due a day off. I’d like to borrow the trap and I could take this lady into the town.’ It was not much of a story. Lance and Florence would not be fooled by it and Chrissie would tell them the truth later if she had to. Meanwhile it saved Grace Lawrence’s blushes as she sat by the fire, dressed again for the road.

  Lance sighed, ‘Aye, you might as well. God knows there’s nothing for you to do, anyway.’

  Florence took Chrissie aside to tell her, ‘It cheered him up, that trip into town, but as soon as he saw this place all his troubles came back to him.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do.’

  The postman brought a letter from Frank Ward for Chrissie. She ran up to her room to read it, picturing him writing it, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on the unfamiliar task: ‘Dear Chrissie Carter . . .’ She smiled and wished he was with her, missing him. Then she put the letter away in her box with all the others. An hour later she drove the pony and trap into the town with Grace Lawrence at her side.

  The house was a comfortable size for the banker and his daughter, in park Place on the edge of Ashbrooke. Chrissie halted the pony outside the gates opening on to the street of tall terraced houses behind well-kept gardens. She set Grace down in the road then gave her some advice: ‘Tell whatever story you like to the neighbours or anyone else who’s missed you. But tell your father the truth. You’ll both be happier. Tell him all the truth, that you know you’ve been silly, that it was because you’re fed up with sitting around doing nothing and you want to get a job and meet some young people.’

  Chrissie paused for breath and Grace peered up at her and protested, ‘But I didn’t say that!’

  Chrissie leaned down from her seat on the trap and said softly, ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’

  The girl blinked at her short sightedly and admitted, ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought of
it like that, but – what job?’

  ‘There are two or three schools offering courses in typing and shorthand. Why not take one of those and then try working in somebody’s office?’ Chrissie had thought of it more than once. She had her bookkeeping and typing skills and could have got a job in an office, but loyalty to Lance Morgan had kept her with him.

  Grace Lawrence bit her lip and then resolved, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do just as you say.’

  Chrissie handed down her suitcase and patted Grace’s shoulder. ‘Off you go then.’ She watched the girl hurry up the street under the arching trees, the case dragging from her arm.

  Chrissie drove into the town, across the bridge and down to the river. She tied up the pony there, put on his nosebag and left him munching his feed.

  In Ballantyne’s yard Jack stood on the carpet before his grandfather’s desk. Richard sat to one side of the desk, George Ballantyne behind it. The old man sat with straight back, hands flat on the desk, glaring at his grandson. He said, ‘I took you to Germany because the draughtsman who was supposed to go with me fell ill. You did very well.’

  Richard nodded approvingly, but he was puzzled. So was Jack, who answered, ‘Thank you.’ Both wondered, Why that glare?

  They found out. George said, ‘Last night, in my club, I overheard one member say to another: “That Ballantyne boy is a devil with the women.” It’s not the first time I’ve heard that comment, or something similar, but this time there were half a dozen of them sniggering at it. I’ll not have it!’

  Richard protested, ‘Really, Father, I think you’re exaggerating—’

  George cut him off: ‘I am not! That is what is being said!’ He stabbed a long finger at Jack. ‘He’s getting the reputation of a lecher and it has to stop!’

  Jack, red faced, defended himself: ‘That’s not true! And I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of.’

  His father said, ‘All right, Jack. Leave us now.’ And when his son refused to move but stood glaring back at the old man, Richard ordered him, ‘Please!’ Startled, Jack turned to him and Richard went on, ‘I want to talk to your grandfather.’ Jack hung on his heel a moment, mutinous, then strode out.

  When the door closed behind his son, Richard said, ‘That was unfair.’

  ‘Unfair be damned!’ Old George slapped the desk with the flat of his hand, sending the pens jumping and skittering on its polished surface. ‘There’s bad blood coming out in him and it has to be stopped before it takes a hold.’

  Richard questioned, ‘Bad blood? Mine?’ He was remembering George’s disapproval of Sally Youill.

  But George answered, ‘No, his mother.’

  Richard snapped, ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘She was a harlot!’

  Richard did not answer that because it was his own opinion. He defended his son: ‘Jack is a young man like many another. I’ll not have him pilloried, not by you, not by anyone. I’ll hear no more of this and you will leave him alone.’

  He did not say ‘or else’, or otherwise threaten, but neither he nor Jack were dependent on George. They shared a house because they were a family. If that relationship broke down for any reason then they could go their separate ways, albeit with sorrow.

  They both knew this and sat silent for a time, drawing back from confrontation. Then George said, voice low, ‘I’m fond of the boy. I don’t want to see him go to the bad.’

  ‘I don’t believe he will.’ And Richard spoke from the heart.

  It was close to noon when Chrissie strolled the length of the narrow street outside Ballantyne’s yard. She had timed her walk so that she was at the gates when the hooter sounded for the midday break. A river of men poured out, hurrying home to their dinners. Some of the ‘men’ were only fourteen years old, small copies of their elders in overalls with sleeves and legs turned up, carrying the tin cans that held their tea.

  She watched the flood, looking for one particular man, and saw his head, black haired and hatless, above the crowd. There were clerks from the yard’s offices in their well-worn suits and stiff, stand-up collars all around him, mixed in with the men in overalls. His dark suit was a better cut and sat smoothly on his wide shoulders. He did not see her because her head barely came up to the shoulders of the men who streamed past. Several who had known her at the Frigate greeted her: ‘Aye, aye, Chrissie!’

  She smiled at them but edged towards him through the crowd, but skilfully, so that she seemed to fall into step at his side by accident, to exclaim, ‘Why, hello, Mr Ballantyne!’ She smiled at him.

  Jack put a hand up to his hat, then remembered he had left it in the office and turned the gesture into a salute. He was in a black, bad temper over his grandfather’s accusation and his greeting was curt and unsmiling: ‘Hello.’

  Chrissie had half-expected he might still be smarting from their row of a few months before, but she was disappointed to see it. So he wasn’t prepared to forgive and forget although that would not stop her. He had been given his apology and would not get another but she needed his help. She asked, ‘Do you still go into the Frigate? I didn’t see you before we moved to the Halfway House.’

  ‘I had to go away on business. With my grandfather,’ he explained. ‘It was all arranged for one of the senior draughtsmen to go with him but the chap fell ill, so Grandfather roped me in at the last minute.’ And had said he did very well, so the old boy approved to some extent. That thought smoothed away Jack’s scowl.

  Chrissie saw that, smiled at him and said lightly, ‘We missed you.’ They both knew that was an olive branch – and she looked very pretty. Jack accepted it and grinned for the first time. She went on quickly, ‘I’m in town to do a bit o’ shopping for Mrs Morgan. But seeing you reminds me: Wasn’t there a friend of yours saying one night in the Frigate that his uncle was looking for a house in the country?’

  Jack frowned, casting his mind back, then remembered, ‘Bob Pickering.’

  Chrissie had been ready to supply the name to jog his memory but now said innocently, ‘Was it?’

  ‘His uncle wants somewhere cheap that he can knock into shape to suit himself, somewhere secluded.’

  Chrissie agreed, ‘I remember now. Well, just between you and me, Lance is making a lot of money but Mrs Morgan isn’t happy out there. I think he could be talked into selling and I wonder if Mr Pickering’s uncle would be interested? I thought I’d mention it to young Mr Arkenstall and ask if he could help because he knows about these things, being a solicitor.’

  Jack shook his head quickly, ‘No. He’s the chap to draw up the deed of sale, but as to bringing the two parties together, well, I can do that.’

  ‘Oh, would you, Mr Ballantyne?’

  ‘Of course.’ If anyone was going to help Chrissie it would be he. Grandfather could grouse as much as he wanted. Jack would court any girl he pleased. He said, ‘I’ll talk to Bob and his uncle and then come out to see Lance.’

  Chrissie gave him a wide smile, ‘Thank you. That is good of you.’

  Jack lunched in the dining-room of the Palace Hotel, the best in the town. When he returned to his office his father eyed him and asked good humouredly, ‘What are you smirking at?’

  Jack realised he was grinning, and knew why, but could only say, ‘Oh, just – cheerful.’

  Richard became serious. ‘Your grandfather had a point and a right to make it. He’s jealous of the family name and reputation. We came from humble beginnings – your great-grandfather started out in life as a labourer – but we’ve always played fair, in business and in our private lives. Don’t spoil that record.’

  ‘I won’t.’ And Jack was determined on that.

  Chrissie had brought a sandwich into town and ate it in the snug of the Bells, chatting with the barmaid, Millie Taylor. She returned to the Halfway House in the dusk, well content with her day, and hopeful.

  Jack Ballantyne came out on the following Saturday evening. Lance had been tactfully coached by Chrissie, giving her advice as enquiries: ‘Do you think you should lay it on abo
ut how quiet it is around here? And let his client see it on a Saturday as well?’

  So Lance showed Jack around and gestured at the half-dozen farmers and labourers in the bar. ‘You came on a good night. Saturday is our quietest day. Everybody goes into town.’ In fact it was their busiest. ‘I came out here for the quiet and the country air but my missus doesn’t like it. She wants to get back into the town.’ At the end he swallowed, looked Jack bravely in the eye and named his price. Jack noted it down and went away.

  Lance, relieved, said, ‘He seemed to think it was all right.’

  Chrissie told him, ‘He would. If you had been trying to sell him a ship I daresay he could have told you what it was worth to a penny. But he doesn’t know anything about the pub trade and this one in particular. Besides, his client isn’t looking for a pub. He wants a house.’

  Jack returned on the following Saturday evening with Bob Pickering and his Uncle Wagstaffe, morose and black suited, communicating in grunts or monosyllables with a flat Midlands accent. Wagstaffe looked over the property, shook his head, sniffed or sighed his way around the house, glanced at the land surrounding it and turned away in obvious disgust. He made an offer and Lance greeted it with amusement.

  They haggled, sitting at the table in the kitchen behind the bar. Chrissie plied them with rum and coffee: ‘A drop o’ something in it to keep out the cold, sir.’ Wagstaffe grunted, sniffed at the aroma and drank it down, smacked his lips. Lance, previously primed by Chrissie, told him, ‘You’re a sharp man, there’s no denying that.’ And Wagstaffe swallowed the compliment and sniffed again, sat a little straighter and accepted another mug of thickly laced coffee. When they finally reached agreement his speech had thickened and he slapped Lance on the back, walked out with an arm around his shoulders and told him, ‘We learn how to drive a hard bargain where I come from.’

  He had beaten Lance down just £100 from his asking price, leaving Lance well satisfied.

  Jack Ballantyne hung back as Bob and his uncle walked out to the cab that had brought them. He had drunk sparingly of Chrissie’s coffee, now stood by her at the kitchen range and said softly, ‘The people where Wagstaffe came from didn’t tell him about you.’