Mary's Child

by Irene Carr

  She called, ‘You just look out you don’t hurt yourself with those machines!’ Then she walked back to the Bells to start work there.

  That evening she told Jack Ballantyne, ‘Thank you for helping. Mr Arkenstall did everything properly for us.’

  Jack asked carefully, ‘You know this chap Milburn pretty well, then? I mean, to trust him with your savings . . .’

  Chrissie gave a careless shrug. ‘Oh, aye. But anyway, it was money for my “bottom drawer” and I won’t need it now. I won’t be getting married, you see.’

  Jack thought he saw.

  A week later he left with his father for the United States and South America.

  Chrissie saw little of him in the next two years. She knew that was not surprising, that they came from two different worlds, he wealthy and travelling widely, she serving behind a bar, bent over ledgers or scrubbing floors.

  He returned after six months but only to leave again very soon, this time for the Continent. Whenever Chrissie did see him on one of his short visits home in those two years, he was always escorting a different girl. Chrissie told herself that was nothing to her. His reputation was established now, not as a rake – he did not gamble and drank little – but as ‘one for the girls’.

  That did him an injustice because he more than pulled his weight for the Ballantyne yard. From the many times his father and grandfather had taken him to the yard as a small boy, and through the ensuing years, he had soaked up knowledge. He talked with George and Richard now as an equal and worked as hard as they, knowing that one day he would have to run the yard.

  The only friction came from old George Ballantyne, critical of the succession of girls. He and Jack had more than one clash, all of them ending with a glower and a growl from the old man: ‘Don’t disgrace this house!’ and Jack stalking away. But the rows passed and within the hour the pair would be working together again.

  Chrissie also worked hard, most of her waking hours, at the Palace Hotel or the Bells, and her savings grew rapidly again. It was not a natural life for an attractive young woman but her ambition drove her.

  Max Forthrop also had ambitions and their fulfilment would not lie in a prosaic solicitors’ office. He wanted money and power, would use the former to purchase the latter. And he wanted revenge on the girl, Chrissie Carter. He would wait a year or two until he was ready to seize all three objectives. There was pleasure to be had from anticipation. Meanwhile he affected hardly to notice the girl.

  Then at the end of those two years and in a summer of blazing heat, life took a savagely different turn.

  Chapter 18

  April 1914

  ‘Martha Tate! What are you doing here?’ The man’s voice was lifted to carry across the foyer of the Palace Hotel. Chrissie, recognising his voice lifted her head from her books to glance at him, though incuriously at first. She knew that he occasionally came from Newcastle on business and lunched at the Palace. He was stocky, stout, red faced and smirking wet-lipped at the woman now.

  She answered, in a conversational tone but in a voice trained to reach the distant recesses of a theatre, an attribute of her profession. ‘Herbert! Fancy meeting you! Well, I usually work the halls in London and round the south, but I had a few weeks free so I took on this touring show. I’ve got a week at the Empire here.’ She was one of the ‘theatricals’, the cast of the show currently playing at the Empire Theatre in the town. Whatever show it was, the principals at least always stayed at the Palace and were always known as the ‘theatricals’. She was tall for a woman, long legged and high breasted, wearing the make-up and lipstick of her trade.

  But – Martha Tate?

  Business had been good and a year ago Walter Ferguson had asked Chrissie to take over some of his managerial duties, so he could play some golf during the week. Chrissie had agreed but asked in return for a raise in pay and a receptionist. She got both. Now she rose from her desk to stand by the girl and ask, whispering, ‘Who is that?’

  The girl glanced across and whispered back, ‘Number twelve.’ Her finger ran down the register and stopped. ‘Vesta Nightingale. But that’s her stage name.’ She giggled. ‘Freddie says she comes back with a different chap every night.’ Freddie was the night porter. ‘She says goodnight to them down here but Freddie saw one of them sneaking out down the back stairs at two o’clock in the morning!’

  Chrissie remembered where she had seen those names. She swallowed and turned back to her desk on shaking legs. On her birth certificate the name of her mother was shown as Martha Tate, and there was Bessie’s pencilled note: ‘. . . stage name is Vesta Nightingale’.

  She missed some of the conversation as she tried to come to terms with the realisation. When she lifted her head again, Martha Tate was saying coyly, ‘Stand me lunch? Are you sure it won’t leave you short, Bert?’

  He leered at her. ‘No fear o’ that.’

  ‘You’re making plenty o’ money, then?’

  ‘Aye, that an’ all.’ He guffawed and she threw back her head and laughed with him. He took her arm then and they walked on into the dining-room. Chrissie watched them go from behind her desk. She would have to wait but she was in no hurry. She had waited twenty years already, had thought this moment might never come.

  When Walter Ferguson passed through the foyer soon afterwards he asked, ‘Not off yet, Chrissie?’ This was Saturday and she only worked at the Palace until noon.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Ferguson. There’s something I want to finish.’ She did not think her legs would support her if she tried to leave.

  He nodded and passed on.

  When Martha Tate came out of the dining-room, Bert waddling heavily a pace behind her, she paused and told him, ‘Thanks for the lunch and it was nice to talk over old times. But I’ve got a matinée this afternoon and there’s a cab coming for me any minute.’

  Chrissie did not hear the next exchange, but Bert muttered, ‘Thought I might see you later on, you know? Like we used to.’

  And Martha said softly, ‘But you were single then, Bert. And you’ll have to be home in Newcastle tonight, won’t you?’

  He sighed. ‘Aye.’

  She smiled at him, promising, ‘We’re playing in Newcastle next week. Suppose you look me up?’

  Chrissie saw him go off smirking, and the cab whisked Martha Tate away a minute later.

  Chrissie went back to the Bells and served in the bar through the afternoon, but then she asked Lance, ‘Can I have tonight off, please, Mr Morgan?’

  He stared at her in surprise and answered, ‘We can manage for one night, aye, but what’s the matter? Feeling poorly?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I just thought I’d like to go to the Empire.’

  ‘Aye?’ Lance still wondered at this because Chrissie never took time off, but he said, ‘That’s a good idea. You don’t get out enough.’ He was about to add, ‘And it’s time you got over that business with poor Ted and found yourself another young feller,’ but he decided against it and instead dipped into his waistcoat pocket and gave her a half-crown. ‘Here, my treat.’

  The theatre was crowded because this was Saturday night and the only seat Chrissie could buy was in the balcony. She sat up in ‘the Gods’ and listened to Vesta Nightingale sing, watched her dance across the stage, long legs kicking and skirts flying. Chrissie knew that after the show the cast would be eating in some restaurant or other, knew also that Vesta Nightingale would be escorted back to the Palace by a man. So Chrissie returned to the Bells and her own bed, but to sleep little.

  On Sunday morning she walked across the bridge into the town. The river glittered, its banks lined with shipping, gulls swooping wide-winged and white above its surface. There was the smell of salt, and smoke from the yards, the promise of a day of heat and bright sunshine, but she shivered as she entered the Palace by the back door. She climbed the service stairs to the first floor where Vesta Nightingale had her room. She knew the ‘theatrical’ always had breakfast in her room, and that it would have been served by now
because the cast would be leaving this morning for Newcastle to keep their next engagement. She tapped at the door and a voice demanded irritably, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Service, ma’am.’ Chrissie thought that was true, she served there.

  ‘Come in!’

  Chrissie took a breath and entered. The breakfast tray, with soiled crockery, lay by the bed. Martha Tate was dressed and sat on the stool before her dressing table. An empty bottle and two glasses stood on it. Martha was applying make-up. The morning light showed the lines at the corners of her eyes and the shadows beneath them. She snapped, ‘What the hell d’you want?’

  ‘I’m Chrissie Carter.’ She waited.

  ‘Who?’ Martha glanced round, frowning. ‘You said you were service. You’re the girl that sits in the hall by the receptionist doing the office work, aren’t you? What’s this about?’

  Chrissie said, ‘I think you are my mother. And you gave me to Mary and Harry Carter when I was born. That was in January 1894.’

  Martha put her hands to her mouth and said, ‘My God!’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  Martha nodded, slowly. Chrissie was silent for a moment. Her mother did not reach out to her. Chrissie said, ‘Why did you do it?’

  Martha was taken aback by the question and seemed to think the answer was obvious. ‘Why? The same reason other lasses are still having bairns – ignorance. If I’d known as much then as I do now I’d have enjoyed myself but I wouldn’t have had you.’

  Chrissie flinched as if struck and tried again: ‘I meant, why did you give me away?’

  Martha shrugged, avoided Chrissie’s gaze and answered, ‘It seemed the best thing for you. I wasn’t married and I couldn’t drag a bairn like you around the halls.’ Now she looked Chrissie over, a quick up and down glance from head to foot, taking in the girl’s best coat, hat and shoes, not flashy but clean and sound. And she took in the girl inside the clothes, face and figure. She said, ‘Well, it looks as if you turned out all right.’ She peered at Chrissie’s hands and saw no ring. ‘Not married, then? Got a feller or two though, I’ll bet.’ She winked.

  ‘No.’

  Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘I’d ha’ thought you wouldn’t have to try. I’d had a few by the time I was – what are you now?’

  Chrissie answered, ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Good God!’ Her mother grimaced. ‘Look, love, don’t tell anybody from the show who you are, will you? I tell ’em I’m thirty. They don’t believe me but they don’t care as long as I perform all right.’ She grinned lewdly. ‘That goes for the fellers as well.’ Then the grin slipped away. ‘But what I mean is, if the manager found out about you he might not take me on for another tour. So let’s just keep this between ourselves, right?’ She looked down at the little gold watch pinned to her blouse and stood up. ‘That reminds me: the porter will be up for my bags before long. We’ve got a train to catch.’

  Chrissie asked, ‘Who was my father?’

  Martha paused in the act of shrugging into her coat. ‘What d’you want to know that for?’

  ‘Who was he? You do know – don’t you?’

  Martha snapped indignantly, ‘O’ course I do! Don’t you start giving me a lot o’ lip, my girl!’ She struggled with the coat, the sleeve tangled and she swore.

  Chrissie watched and said, ‘I was told he was the son of a rich man, a shipbuilder.’

  Martha’s hand shoved out of the sleeve and she started to button the coat. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A woman called Agatha Milburn. She used to be Agatha—’

  Martha brushed that aside impatiently, picked up her hat and stepped in front of the mirror to put it on. ‘I know I told her that. And there was a young feller, Chris. I called you after him. He came home wi’ me one night but I’d filled him up wi’ drink and he never touched me!’ She laughed raucously, then finished, ‘I told Agatha it was him because—’ She paused, did not want to admit she had tried to blackmail old George Ballantyne and went on instead, ‘I thought it sounded better.’

  ‘Better than what? Was there something about my father I should be ashamed of?’

  ‘No!’ Martha denied that quickly. ‘He was straight as a die but he was nothing but a sailor. He was a chap by the name of Andrew Wayman. He’d come back from a long voyage and he gave me a good time while his money lasted but then he signed on aboard another ship bound for Australia.’ She jabbed a hat-pin into the hat, securing it to her head. A knock came at the door and she shouted, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Porter, ma’am. For your luggage.’

  ‘Come in!’

  He stumped bandy-legged into the room and blinked when he recognised Chrissie, doubtless wondering what she was doing there. But he only picked up the two suitcases and three round hat boxes. He staggered out, hung about with luggage. Martha and Chrissie followed him.

  Martha paused outside the room, waited until the porter had laboured around a corner of the stairs and was out of earshot, then said, ‘You’re not coming down with me?’ It was not so much a question as an order.

  Chrissie said, ‘No. I’ll go down the back stairs and use the servants’ entrance.’

  Martha nodded, relieved. ‘That’s a good idea. Well, I never expected this when I woke up! To tell the truth, I never thought I’d ever see you. But I’m glad now that I have. It’s nice to know you’re all right. If I’m ever up this way again I’ll look to see how you’re getting along. Cheerio, lass.’ She waved her gloved hand and started down the stairs.

  Chrissie said, ‘Goodbye.’ She watched until her mother turned the corner of the stairs and was lost to sight. Then she walked back across the bridge. Now she knew her father had not been the son of a wealthy shipbuilder, but an Andrew Wayman, a sailor. That was all. Nothing else had changed. She had not known her mother and could not understand her now. She had been abandoned for the second time.

  She told herself she was no worse off. She still knew what she wanted out of life and was determined she would get it. She lifted her head, straightened her back and smiled into the sunlight. People passing saw that smile but not the tears on her face.

  It was on another sunny day that Max Forthrop paused at Chrissie’s desk and looked around to make sure he would not be overheard before he spoke. ‘Miss Carter.’

  Chrissie answered politely, ‘Yes, Mr Forthrop?’ She wondered, apprehensive, if he had finally remembered her from her days as a maid in his house.

  But he went on, ‘Are you happy here?’

  ‘Why, yes, Mr Forthrop.’ What was he getting at?

  He leaned closer. ‘I’ve been watching you.’ Chrissie knew that, had caught his glances though pretending not to, and had been disturbed. He went on, ‘And I’m impressed.’ He had also listened to Walter Ferguson telling more than one of his customers, ‘That Carter girl is a real good ’un. I’ve never known anybody near as good at her job.’ Forthrop offered, ‘I’ll pay you five shillings a week more than you’re getting here.’

  Chrissie stared at him blankly for a moment, dumbfounded. What was he offering? She remembered his way with women and flushed angrily, ‘No, thank you, Mr Forthrop.’

  He urged, ‘You’d be doing just the same job. In fact the work would be easier because my place isn’t so big.’

  The same job? Chrissie asked, ‘What place do you mean?’

  He glanced around again and lowered his voice. ‘Just between you and me, I’m going to buy the Railway Hotel. It’s been run down and I’ll have to spend a bit on it but I expect to open again in June or July. I’m looking for staff now – I’ll be throwing out the lot that’s in there – and I need somebody like you in the front office. What do you say?’

  Chrissie hedged. ‘I didn’t know the Railway was for sale.’

  Forthrop grinned and winked. ‘Nor does anybody else, except me and the manager. He’s been given the sack and he came to me to see what his legal rights were. He told me in confidence and that’s how I’m telling you. But don’t go bidding agains
t me!’ He laughed at that idea, reached out and tweaked her chin between thumb and forefinger before she could pull away. He was jubilant. This was the girl he needed to run the Railway Hotel. And he remembered how she had fought him in the cupboard. He had to settle with her for that. When he had her to himself every day . . . She would soon be his every night, he was sure of that. Two birds with one stone. Now he pressed her, ‘So what do you say?’

  Chrissie eased his fingers from her face and surreptitiously wiped her hand on her skirt. She answered tactfully, ‘This has come as a surprise, Mr Forthrop. I’ll need to think it over.’

  His grin turned to a scowl. ‘D’you want more money? Five shillings on top of what you’re getting now – Ferguson won’t give you that.’

  ‘It’s not the money.’

  He did not believe her because to him money was all-important. He asked, ‘What then?’

  ‘I just need time to think about it. Mr Ferguson has been good to me—’

  Forthrop regarded that as sentiment and brushed it aside with a flap of his hand. ‘You’ve been good for him, an’ all. But you think about it and don’t give your notice in – yet. I’ll tell you when. And not a word to Ferguson, mind. Hear?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forthrop.’ Chrissie watched him as he nodded and strode away, her thoughts racing.

  Max Forthrop went back to his office, palatial new chambers in Fawcett Street in the centre of the town. He was no longer in partnership with Arkenstall and Halliwell. There had been a succession of rows because Forthrop had built up a criminal clientele and Ezra looked askance at some of his methods. He suspected some witnesses had been bribed, some aliases manufactured.

  Forthrop had finally shouted, ‘Damn you! Keep your nose out of my affairs! I’m leaving the partnership!’ Once it had served him as a cloak, but it had become a straitjacket, restricting his operations.

  Ezra accepted his leaving with relief, was glad to see the back of him.

  Now Forthrop strode through his outer office, occupied by his clerk, a pallid and timid young man, and the girl who did his typing. She was seventeen and it was her air of innocence that attracted Forthrop. ‘Any calls for me?’ he asked.