by Irene Carr
Chrissie stopped on the landing outside the kitchen door, knocked and called, ‘Millie! Are you in?’
‘Who is it?’ The voice was distant, muffled.
‘Chrissie Carter.’
She heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back, dragging footsteps and then the door was opened by Millie. Her face was lumpy and stained by grief. Her hair had come down so it hung in strands about her face. She said chokingly, ‘You’d better come in, Miss.’
Chrissie followed her into the kitchen and exclaimed, ‘For God’s sake, Millie, what’s happened?’
The girl collapsed into a straight-backed chair at the table as if her legs had given way. A buff-coloured rectangle of paper lay on the table and she pushed it towards Chrissie. ‘It’s Jimmy. It came this morning.’ She dropped her face into her hands, fingers running into her hair. That was how it had come down.
Chrissie read the telegram, praying it would say ‘wounded’, but Jimmy Williamson had been killed. She laid her furled umbrella in the hearth to drip, pulled up another chair and sat down beside the girl, put an arm around her. She stayed an hour in Millie’s kitchen, comforted her, made her a cup of tea and listened. Millie poured out all her worries and fears for Jimmy over the past year and more while he had been in France.
‘I know it was wrong, I should have said no, but he was going back to that hell-hole again and I loved him.’ Now she was expecting his child. She blinked at Chrissie. ‘Do you understand what I mean?’
Chrissie did, remembering Frank Ward, and could have wept herself.
But at the end of the hour she steeled herself to face practicalities. She dared not leave the girl alone like this and Lance Morgan needed help. She urged, ‘Come on, now. We’ll tidy you up and go round to the Bells. You’ll be better for a bit o’ company and a bite to eat. I’ll bet you haven’t had anything today.’ The girl shook her head miserably, uncaring, but she washed her face, put up her hair and went out with Chrissie.
They worked together at the Bells and after the dinnertime rush at noon Chrissie found time to talk to Lance Morgan. Then she took Millie aside.
‘Mr Morgan says he’ll pay your wages through your confinement and keep your job open for you afterwards.’
Millie had shed tears more than once during the day and she wept again now. But she was more herself. She had not got over the shock of Jimmy’s death, that would take years, but she was ready to deal with life again. Chrissie left her to handle the evening trade with Lance and returned to her work at the Railway Hotel. But she realised Lance Morgan and the Bells were becoming a problem.
She managed to take on two girls, straight from school at fourteen, who were suitable for the hotel. Then she persuaded one of the hotel barmaids, with the promise of a raise in pay, to move to the Bells. That solved the problem – or so she thought.
The summer had reached its bloody end but the ‘big push’ was still going on in Flanders and the casualty lists were still posted every day, the long columns of names of the dead. As October came in with gales, rain and a chill dampness, Lance Morgan told Chrissie, ‘I’m going to have to sell up, lass. The doctor tells me I won’t get through another winter here.’
Chapter 23
October 1918
They were talking in the Bells. Lance Morgan never went out on those winter days when the weather was bad. He sat in the kitchen now while Maggie Gurney, the girl transferred from the Railway Hotel, tended the bar. Millie had ceased work now because an obviously pregnant girl could not work in the bar. Lance looked up at Chrissie miserably and said, ‘I feel ashamed o’ meself but there’s nowt I can do. I can’t go on like this. Another six months will see me in my grave.’ He was haggard and his laboured breathing could be heard in the next room.
Florence Morgan stood at her husband’s side. She explained, ‘He feels badly because if it hadn’t been for you making such a success of this place and the Railway Hotel, he mightn’t have been able to retire this early wi’ plenty o’ money to see him through. But he hasn’t any choice, Chrissie.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘And I don’t want to lose him.’
Chrissie said firmly, ‘We all want what’s best for him. He should do as the doctor says and move to some place warmer and milder where he’ll be better.’
Florence nodded eagerly. ‘I thought about the south coast. We could get a little bungalow so he wouldn’t have to cope with the stairs.’
Chrissie agreed, ‘That’s a good idea.’ And she told Lance, ‘You put the Bells and the Railway on the market straight away.’
Florence asked, ‘How much do you think the Railway should fetch?’ Lance knew how much he would get for the public house.
Chrissie thought for a minute, doing sums in her head, then said, ‘Ask for £5,000 but don’t take less than £4,800.’
Florence stared at her, round eyed and round mouthed. ‘As much as that? Are you sure?’
Lance Morgan laughed, coughed and said, ‘If Chrissie says so, it’ll be right. She manages the place and does the books, remember. She knows the worth of that place and everything in it.’
That was true. Chrissie left them easier in their minds, but she was not. The new owners of the hotel might keep her on but not in the position she held now. She knew that as a young woman she was an oddity as the manager of a hotel. So she would be out of a job. Whoever took over the Bells might keep her on as a barmaid, but that would be a big comedown.
As she walked over the bridge on her way back to the hotel she told herself, ‘Cheer up. You’re young and you can work. You won’t starve.’ She had saved some money in the two years since she had given nearly all she had to Phillip Massingham. She thought of it as given, despite the share certificates she held, because she had not heard from him in those two years. ‘So you’re not too badly off.’ But it was still a bitter blow. All her working life she had striven for a place of her own and now she was almost back where she had started. But her head was high as she swept into the hotel and smiled brilliantly at the staff working in the foyer. She was not beaten yet.
She needed all her courage. The Railway and the Bells were put up for sale on a Monday, and on the Tuesday Max Forthrop strode into the hotel and shoved open the door of Chrissie’s office without knocking. He stood wide-legged in the doorway, hands in his pockets and hat on the back of his head. He wore a well-cut, expensive suit that almost hid the paunch he had grown. Behind him stood a younger man of slighter build with a thin moustache and wearing a cheaper, flashier suit. Chrissie recognised Victor Parnaby.
She sat back in her chair and looked Forthrop up and down with a cold stare, then told him, ‘Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want it.’
Forthrop showed his teeth, stung but not put down. ‘I’m not selling, I’m buying. This place will be mine inside of a month, so make the most of your time. You haven’t got long.’ He spun on his heel and stalked away. Victor Parnaby gave Chrissie a sneering grin then followed him.
She shut the door and started back towards her desk but then changed her mind; she knew she would not be able to settle to any work now. Instead she sat in an armchair by the fire and stared into the flames. Forthrop was going to have his revenge. If Lance Morgan accepted his offer – and he would not dare refuse in case there wasn’t another – then Forthrop would inherit the fruits of all her labours. She felt sick.
She had no doubt Forthrop would pay Lance’s price in full. She was sure he had plenty of money, had heard through the trade that he had bought a dozen public houses in the last five years and knew the style in which he lived now. He would put up the cash and not need a mortgage . . .
She shoved up out of the chair and paced about the room as she thought. She wondered if she could do it? And decided, Well, there’s only one way to find out and that’s to try.
Lance Morgan was slumped in his armchair in the kitchen of the Bells and Florence was making a cup of tea when Chrissie burst in on them. She wasted no time and asked at once, ‘Has Forthrop been here?’
Lance blinked at her. ‘Who?’
‘Have you had an offer for the Railway Hotel yet?’
He shook his head and coughed, gasped for breath while she waited, holding hers. Finally he wheezed, ‘No. And who’s Forthrop?’
Chrissie sighed with relief and explained, ‘Max Forthrop. He’s a solicitor, or used to be, with Arkenstall. He was the one who tried to buy the place four years ago.’
‘Ah! Now I remember. You told me about him at the time. No, he hasn’t been here. Why?’
‘He’s told me he’s going to buy it now.’
‘Hang on!’ Lance struggled to sit up in the chair, coughed again and Florence ran to slap his back. Finally he got out, ‘You and him don’t get on.’
Chrissie said drily, ‘You could say that.’
‘Well, don’t you worry. Whoever buys the place, I’ll make it a condition that they keep you on in your job. That’s a promise.’ He said that with determination.
Chrissie saw he meant it but now she shook her head. ‘Forthrop wouldn’t agree to that, but anyway, I wouldn’t work for him.’ She sat on her heels so she crouched at his side and laid her hand on his. ‘Listen, Mr Morgan. If I give you a cash deposit now will you give me thirty days to find the rest?’
He gaped at her. ‘You? You want to buy the Railway?’
‘Yes. I think I could make a go of it.’
Lance shook his head, ‘No! A lass on her own couldn’t—’ He stopped, chest wheezing as he thought about it, then recalling what she had done in the last four years he nodded. ‘I think you could an’ all. But five thousand? Where will you raise that?’
Where indeed? Chrissie had only the vaguest idea but she answered confidently, ‘I think I can find it. Will you do it?’
Florence jumped in. ‘O’ course he will! Won’t you, Lance?’
‘Aye!’ He nodded and started coughing again but finished, ‘You let me have that deposit and I’ll give you your thirty days.’
She took the cheque, already made out for £800, from her bag and gave it to him. He stared dumbfounded at it for a moment but then he wrote her a receipt in exchange and she left almost running. Now she was almost penniless again and she needed more than £4,000 to close the sale. But she also had a month . . .
Within the hour Maggie Gurney poked her head around the kitchen door of the Bells and said, ‘There’s a Mr Forthrop wants to see you, Mr Morgan.’
Lance exchanged glances with Florence then told the girl, ‘Send him in.’
Forthrop came in smiling with Victor Parnaby trailing him. Forthrop explained, ‘Mr Parnaby is my business associate.’ Parnaby sniggered. They took the seats offered and Forthrop smiled at Lance. ‘I’ve come to take the Railway Hotel off your hands. I’ll give you £4,900 for it.’
Lance, disliking him on sight, shook his head. ‘You’re too late. I’ve already accepted a better offer.’
Forthrop’s smile vanished and was replaced by a glare. ‘The bloody place only went on the market yesterday! When was this offer made?’
Lance returned the glare. ‘An hour ago.’
‘Who made it?’
‘That’s my business.’
Parnaby muttered, ‘Let me talk to the auld bastard.’
Forthrop hissed, ‘Shut up!’
And Lance, panting for breath but from anger not fear, snapped at Parnaby, ‘I can get a few of the fellers in the bar to handle you, and have Fred Burlinson, the pollis, round here in two minutes. Now get out!’
Parnaby opened his mouth to argue but Florence snatched up the poker from the fireside and brandished it in his face. Forthrop told him, ‘Wait outside. Go on!’ Parnaby slouched from the room and Forthrop forced a smile and apologised. ‘I’m sorry. He gets over-excited. Now, Mr Morgan, about this offer you’ve had: I’ll put another hundred on top of it, whatever it was. And that’s cash on the nail, tomorrow if you like, no ifs, buts or waiting. Was that other offer on those terms?’
Lance Morgan hesitated, then said, ‘I can’t answer that. But I’ve taken the other offer and I’ll have to stick to it. That’s the way I do business.’
Forthrop had seen that momentary hesitation and seized on it. ‘I see. It was so much down and the rest later, eh? All right!’ He kicked back his chair and stood up. ‘My offer stands for just one month. At the end of that time I cut it by £100 for every day this drags on. So think about that. These fancy ideas of business are fine if you can afford them, but I reckon you haven’t got long and you have a wife and children to support.’ And he strode out, slamming the door behind him so it shook in its frame.
Florence sank into a chair, her knees trembling. ‘You’ll never sell to a man like that.’
But Lance was thinking of Forthrop’s last words, looking at his wife and remembering his children at school. He did not answer but he thought, God help me, I might have to sell to him come the end of the month if Chrissie can’t raise the money.
Chrissie asked Ezra Arkenstall to handle the sale for her because his son, Luke, had drawn up the deed of partnership with Ronnie Milburn. The old man was bent and wearied by the war, the volume of his work and worry over Luke, in France with what had been the Royal Flying Corps and was now the Royal Air Force. He did not recognise this slim, dark and attractive young woman at first. But then the name rang a bell far back in his memory: Chrissie Carter?
He asked, though it had nothing to do with the sale, ‘The names of your parents, Miss Carter?’
She wondered at the question but was not afraid or ashamed to answer, ‘Harry and Mary Carter.’
‘And your date of birth?’
‘Thirteenth of January 1894.’
He murmured, ‘Just for my records.’ He went on to take her instructions for the purchase of the Railway Hotel, then sent her off with the words, ‘Come to me if you have any difficulties. I will try my best to help.’
When she had gone he stood at his window and stared out across the river packed with ships to the smoke-shrouded huddle of narrow streets and cramped houses where she was born. The little cast-off child had come a long way.
He wondered what old George Ballantyne would say if he knew? He was a friend and a client of many years’ standing, but the Carter girl was also a client and entitled to Ezra’s silence regarding her affairs. No, there was no question of telling George Ballantyne that young Chrissie Carter was trying to buy the Railway Hotel.
Chrissie went to the banks for a mortgage. She dressed carefully in a new dark grey costume and pinned on her most prized piece of jewellery, the brooch given to her by Bessie Milburn on her deathbed. But one after another the bank managers declined to advance more than £2,000 and that only reluctantly. They were amused, disapproving or distrusting, and all of them made excuses of one sort or another. Only one told her frankly, ‘You’re a young, single woman with no assets. If you had a husband, a breadwinner, then we might have been able to do something, but as it is, you’re a bad risk.’
The last one she tried was a small branch. The manager was elderly and had refused promotion in order to stay where he was. He had made a comfortable niche for himself and did not want to move. Chrissie did not know that, of course, nor did she remember his name.
Stephen Lawrence remembered hers. He listened to her plea, examined the figures she showed him, pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. His professional opinion was the same as his colleagues’, but . . . He asked, ‘I believe you worked at a public house called the Halfway House some years ago.’
Chrissie stared at him, startled. ‘Yes, I did. But I don’t remember you.’ She rarely forgot a customer’s face.
He shook his head. ‘No, I was never there. But you were a great help to my daughter, Grace. You brought her home to me.’
Chrissie remembered. ‘She was a nice girl and I knew the man she was with was no good. How is she?’
Lawrence smiled. ‘She took your advice and found a job, then soon afterwards met a young man and married him.’ He pointed to a photograph on his desk, of
a fat baby gaping solemnly at the camera: ‘My grandson.’
Chrissie laughed. ‘He looks lovely.’
Lawrence cleared his throat. While he had not taken promotion, his experience and expertise were recognised in that his superiors gave him a lot of reponsibility. He had more room to manoeuvre than managers in other banks in the town. He stretched that to the limit now: ‘I think we can advance up to fifty per cent, £2,500.’
Chrissie maintained her decorum until she was outside the bank, then she went away singing and men turned their heads to follow her with their eyes. And at the end of a week she sat in Arkenstall’s office again and he reported, ‘I’ve sold the aircraft shares and here is a cheque for £1,450.’ These were the shares Chrissie had received when Ronnie Milburn sold his business to a big company when he went to France in the Royal Flying Corps.
Ezra smiled as she first stared in amazement then clapped her hands in delight. He explained, ‘Aircraft companies have boomed during the war years, of course.’ But then he became serious. ‘The other shares, however, those in—’ he looked down at his notes – ‘Massingham Motion Pictures Ltd., are virtually worthless. For that reason I have not sold them at this time. It would not help and they might fetch a better price at a later date.’ He was not, and did not sound, optimistic on that score.
Chrissie calculated quickly in her head. She needed another £250.
Arkenstall said, peering, ‘That is a fine brooch you are wearing, Miss Carter. A recent purchase?’ He did not recall her wearing it before, and while he was no jeweller, it looked expensive to him.
Chrissie glanced down at it, pinned to the lapel of her coat. ‘It was given to me by my aunt. Her husband bought it in India – oh, it must be fifty years ago now.’
‘May I see it?’
She unpinned it absently, her mind grappling with the problem of how to raise another £250. That was twice as much as many a labouring man was earning in a year. Arkenstall took off his glasses and held the brooch up to his eyes. ‘Mm . . . It’s a beautiful piece of work.’
