Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga)

Home > Other > Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga) > Page 5
Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 5

by Nicola Thorne


  Bart swung open the door and in front of him was a desk at which sat a stenographer with a large typewriting machine in front of her on which she was busily tapping. She stopped as he came in and smiled at him.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Is Mr Temple in?”

  The girl consulted a list by her side. “I think so.”

  “Could I have a word with him?”

  The girl rose and came round the desk.

  “Who shall I say is asking?”

  “Mr Sadler. Bart Sadler.” The girl disappeared along a corridor to one side of the desk and Bart gazed round. It was an impersonal place with shelves all along one wall on which were heavy legal tomes and copies of The Legal Gazette. There were a couple of leather chairs, a small table with a vase of fresh flowers and a fireplace, now empty. The walls were wooden panelled and looked old. It could be that this had once been a substantial dwelling in this prosperous market town.

  There was something solid and satisfying about the premises, and Bart nodded his approval to himself as a man appeared at the entrance to the corridor and stood looking at Bart, at first curiously and then his face broke into a smile of recognition.

  “Mr Sadler!” He stretched out his hand and warmly shook Bart’s. “How nice to see you again.”

  “I don’t know if you remember me. We met –”

  “Of course I remember you. It was at Sir Carson and Lady Woodville’s daughter’s christening ceremony. You were an old acquaintance of my wife.”

  “That’s it.” Bart smiled his relief.

  “Would you like to come this way, Mr Sadler?” The solicitor courteously pointed to the corridor behind him and then led the way, opening a door at the end through which he ushered Bart. He showed him a chair, offered him a cigar, which Bart refused, and then sat down behind his desk and folded his hands, the smile on his cherubic face wearing an expression of one hoping for rich rewards.

  “Now, how may I help you, Mr Sadler?”

  “I am looking for property in which to live. I would be glad if you would act for me.”

  “I would be delighted, sir.” Mr Temple drew a pad towards him with relish and after writing something on it looked up. “Delighted. Now have you something in mind, Mr Sadler? Have you found a property, or are you just looking?”

  “I have found somewhere.” Bart leaned forward. “But I am anxious that I should not be known as the purchaser. I have personal reasons for this which I cannot reveal at the moment. Is it possible that you could act for me in this matter exercising the greatest discretion?”

  Mr Temple gazed for a moment at his desk, as if perplexed.

  “Well, it is a little unusual but I daresay we could keep your identity secret, at least until the exchange of contracts. Have you, ‘er, have you seen the property, Mr Sadler?”

  “All I can tell you is that I wish to purchase it,” Bart said firmly. “The price is immaterial. I am quite determined to have that house.”

  “And the name of the property, sir?”

  “Upper Park, belonging at the moment to Mrs Julius Heering.”

  ***

  Newman’s, the saddlers in Wenham High Street, had looked after the needs of the Woodville families for over a hundred years. The skills of the saddler had been passed from father to son, although there had been a blip when Albert Newman had been sent to prison for a savage attack on Ted Yewell, one of the Woodville servants, and foster father to Elizabeth Temple. When he came out of prison, Albert went to Australia and settled there and, as he was an only son, for a time it looked as though the business would be sold and pass into other hands. But a cousin, David Newman, professed an interest in the business, which was encouraged by Albert’s father who, when he came to retirement, left it to him.

  This had been forty years ago, and it was David’s son, Clement Newman, who now ran the business, which had changed very little since the day of its foundation, occupying cramped premises opposite the market cross. The sewing was still done upstairs in a room over the shop and there was an all-pervasive smell of old leather about the place, which was pleasing to some, offensive to others.

  Dora had all the leatherwork, the saddles, bridles and accoutrements for her horses looked after by Newman’s. Clement Newman was also a keen horseman and follower of the hunt, and Dora liked nothing better than a chat with him or one of his apprentices when she went in to bring something for repair or to collect a job that had been done.

  Today she’d ridden to the town on her horse, Bonnie, which was now tied up outside the shop by the drinking fountain which William Newman had erected in place of the village pump to mark the accession of Queen Victoria in 1837.

  Dora loved visiting the small town, which had changed so little since her birth. The shops in the high street remained pretty much the same – the butcher, the greengrocer, the baker, the bank, the solitary pub, The Baker’s Arms, the haberdashers once owned by Connie’s guardian and now run by an equally worthy maiden lady in much the same fashion as Miss Fairchild all those years ago. It still sold very much the same goods, with little regard for changing fashions.

  So much of the Woodville history was linked to Wenham and its townsfolk that Dora knew almost everyone there and they knew her.

  Dora had brought in some bridles for stitching, and stood for a long time chatting to Clement Newman about the prospects for the forthcoming hunting season and then, hearing the church clock strike noon, said she must be on her way.

  Mr Newman saw her to the door, said how glad he was to see her again, how much he missed her when she was away, and how he wished she still lived here.

  “So do I, Clem,” Dora said a little sadly, “so do I.”

  Clement was about to help her mount her horse but, at the last minute, Dora remembered she had to go to the bank and asked if she could leave Bonnie tied up by the fountain. Clement assured her things would be fine, but told her when she did set off to be careful and take care of the increasing amount of motorised traffic which was spoiling the character of the countryside and causing hazard all round. Then, as she waved and strode off into the town he stood there watching her before re-entering his shop and getting on with his work.

  To get from one end of the town to the other involved countless stops to greet people she knew or who knew her and who asked, if they could, after every member of the family. Dora was popular. Some thought she had been a heroine in the war like her cousin Carson, who had been decorated. Dora had also been brave, a woman with no medical training, nursing hideously wounded and dying men at the front. That had taken a great amount of courage, but she had no medal to show for it.

  Her brother, Laurence, had been very popular and when he died the whole town closed out of respect and everyone who could attended his funeral, except the manager of the bank which had foreclosed, who had been run out of town.

  Laurence was still remembered by many people and so was their father, Ryder, a son of the soil if ever there was one and, of course, their mother Eliza, who continued to live in Wenham, was greatly loved and respected.

  So by the time Dora reached the bank it was nearly one and as she ran up the steps she cannoned into a woman, began to apologise and then stood still, as if rooted to the spot.

  “May,” she said in a curious, flat tone of voice. “May Carpenter.”

  The woman she’d encountered, nearly knocked over because she was so much smaller than Dora, also remained as if struck by lightning.

  “Dora!” she exclaimed.

  People looked at them curiously as they either entered or left the bank, busy at lunch time, and finally Dora said:

  “How are you, May?” Her friendly tone immediately breaking the ice. May smiled.

  “I was wondering if you’d speak to me.”

  “Oh, May, how could I not speak to you? “Dora felt very emotional as she looked at May and put a hand on her arm. “It really is very good to see you.”

  “And you. I heard you live in France?” May said after a
pause. “Your husband is a Frenchman?”

  “Yes. Jean Parterre. I think you must remember him.”

  May nodded. “Do you like France?”

  “May, why don’t we find somewhere to talk?” Dora ventured, looking around. “Look there’s a new café just opened behind the saddlers. It’s only a tea room, but ...”

  “Tea would be fine,” May said, putting the heavy basket in her hand down on the floor.

  “Wait a tick while I get some money.” Dora pressed her arm again. “Don’t run away, will you?”

  May shook her head and watched as Dora disappeared inside the bank, her heart full of conflicting emotions.

  The two women had nursed together during the war and a close friendship had sprung up. Some people might have called it an unnatural one, but to Dora and May it had been the most natural thing in the world.

  They came from very different backgrounds. May, having never known her parents, grew up in an orphanage, had gone into service and then, by dint of character and sheer hard work, had trained as a nurse. In France she had been Dora’s superior. Dora, being untrained and a volunteer, did exactly as she was told and came to admire the tough little northerner. In time she came to love her.

  After the war, Dora persuaded May to give up nursing and stay with her at Upper Park. It was a relationship, an attraction of opposites, that perplexed Eliza because May had no love of the country pursuits which obsessed Dora, and Dora had none of the domestic skills which May was so good at.

  It was with some relief that Eliza learned of May’s eventual attachment to a local farmer who she married. After which, until this day, Dora had never seen or spoken to her again.

  May waited nervously for Dora to come out of the bank, her emotions in a state of flux. She didn’t know what to expect or what they would say, or how they would feel after the passage of seven years since May had married.

  But after a very short time Dora hurried cheerfully out of the bank and grabbing May’s arm led her back the way she had come, past the shops, past the saddlers to the little tea shop at the back of the town, the proprietress of which looked up with some surprise at Dora as she came in.

  “Why, Miss Yetman ...” she faltered. “I’m afraid we only serve tea and buns at lunch time. There’s not much call for anything else except on market day when we do pies.”

  “Tea and buns would be fine,” Dora said, ushering May to a window seat. “Won’t it, May?”

  “Fine,” May said, still feeling awkward, rather shabby, the antithesis of the glamorous woman in riding clothes opposite her, who looked so vibrant, so much younger than her age. “You look very well, Dora.”

  “And May ... you?” Dora looked at her anxiously.

  “Well, you know.” May inspected her calloused hands with their broken nails. “A farmer’s life isn’t easy. Bernard, of course, is getting on.”

  Bernard was so much older than May that Dora could never understand why she married him.

  “He’d like to give up,” May hurried on, “but it’s so hard these days to make a living on the farm.”

  “Have you children?” Dora asked.

  “A boy and a girl. There’s Dorothy, five, and Simon, four.”

  “Not much help on the farm?” Dora’s smile was warm, sympathetic.

  “And you?” May hesitated, looking at Dora. “Do you have children?”

  Dora shook her head.

  “Well, you’re lucky. I mean I love them, of course, but they’re a handful, and with Bernard not much help ...” Suddenly May’s eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and Dora’s hand instinctively shot across the table and clasped hers.

  “Oh, May,” she said, “I have missed you.”

  Chapter Four

  Abel Yetman often used to pop into The Crown in Blandford for a drink before going home. Sometimes he had clients to entertain, sometimes he went with friends or workmates and sometimes by himself.

  Abel was a bright, personable young man, but his life had been marked by tragedy. When he was only eight his father, Laurence, had committed suicide and from then on Abel became the mainstay of the family. He had two younger sisters, Felicity and Martha, and his mother had turned from a sensible, contented, hard-working, loving wife and mother to a bitter and discontented woman, something of a shrew, slow to praise and quick to find blame, which made family life at Riversmead very difficult.

  Eliza had done her best to help out and had become a steady support to her grandchildren. But sometimes her presence was termed interference by Sarah Jane and resented and gradually the two women, who had once been close and united in the great love they shared for Laurence, grew apart.

  Abel had left school at the age of sixteen and immediately became apprenticed to a builder, as his father and grandfather had been before him.

  This made his mother even more discontented as she had wanted him to shine academically, to be a doctor or a lawyer, a member of the professions. Building, she told him, had done neither his father nor his grandfather any good. It had killed them both and she was pretty sure it would soon kill him. However, like many children with parents who are in some way inadequate, Abel compensated for his mother’s coldness. He was practical and pragmatic, remaining determinedly cheerful, robust and hard-working. By the age of twenty-one he was a master builder and he started a small business, Abel Yetman Ltd, in the same town that his father and grandfather had before him. He employed very few men in order to keep overheads low. His premises were small. His special skill was carpentry and he went in for high quality work. In a very short time he had acquired a reputation for quality, for reliability and cost competitiveness. He delivered on time. His services were in demand and he was beginning to think that now was the time seriously to consider expansion.

  Abel was entertaining a new client who was modernising a house he’d just bought. They finished discussing the details, the costs involved, the schedule for work and, well pleased, Abel was about to order another round of drinks when his client looked at his watch and said he must go. Abel had half an hour to fill before meeting another client so he ordered a pint of beer for himself and, while the barman was getting it, saw his client to the door and shook hands.

  Then he walked back into the hotel and when he reached the bar he took his pint, paid for it and prepared to go and sit at the back of the bar to read the evening paper. But, just as he was doing this, he caught sight of a familiar face. Bart Sadler was sitting at the far end of the bar, also engaged in reading the evening paper. At that moment he looked up and Abel slid his beer along the bar counter and, going over, put out his hand.

  “Hello, Uncle Bart.”

  “Why, Abel,” Bart said with surprise. “How nice to see you again. I hardly recognised you at the christening.”

  “I remember you, just a little, from the past.”

  “But you were very small at the time.”

  “About eight. But you were often at our house.”

  “Ah yes.” Bart sighed and put his glass to his lips. “Yes, those days are over, I’m afraid.” He glanced sideways at his nephew. “Your mother doesn’t like me any more. She blames me for the death of your father.” Bart grimaced. “Which is quite wrong. In the first place I didn’t know that Dick Wainwright was a rogue and secondly ... well, I thought Sophie Lamb could look after herself. She was old enough.”

  “Sophie Lamb? Aunt Sophie?”

  “Yes, I suppose you call her Aunt Sophie. Ah, I can see by the look on your face you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Bart sighed deeply. “Well, I stepped out with Aunt Sophie. People said I took her for a ride, but that was quite wrong. She was a mature woman and knew what she was doing. However, what with one thing and another, I thought it best to shake the dust of Wenham off my feet. I went to South America and I’m glad I did because there I made a fortune.” Bart sat back on his stool and with an expression of satisfaction lit a cigarette. “But in recent months I think I’ve made the wrong decision to come home. No one see
ms to want me around here and I may well go away again.” Bart blew a long stream of smoke into the air. “Which is a pity.”

  “It seems unfair if you did nothing wrong. I’m sure Father would not have blamed you.”

  “Your mother had to blame someone. She couldn’t blame him and Dick Wainwright had vanished. As for Sophie Woodville, as she was then, she married very well and lives, I believe, happy ever after.” Bart lifted his glass and drained the contents. “Cheers, Abel.”

  “Cheers, Uncle.” Knowing his mother’s nature, Abel thought his uncle was more sinned against than sinning and decided that, despite all he had heard about him, he rather liked him.

  Abel was a young man always prepared to see the good in people rather than the bad.

  “I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner tonight, are you?” Bart looked approvingly at his nephew. “I could do with some company.”

  “Well,” Abel looked again at his watch, “I am to see a client and then I was going home; but I could ring Mother ...”

  “Capital, do that,” Bart said, slapping him on the shoulder. “The steak and oyster pie here is very good.”

  “Uncle Bart is very lonely,” Abel said to his mother at breakfast the next morning having listened to her reprimands about the folly of his outing the night before.

  Sarah Jane said something like “pah” and hurled a spoonful of porridge on to his plate.

  “He thinks he has been treated badly, misunderstood. I rather liked him.”

  Sarah Jane said nothing but her back, turned to her son as she cooked his bacon and eggs over the stove, seemed to speak volumes.

  “He said he might leave the area.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “Or he might build a house here.” Abel’s tone grew excited. “If so he might like me to undertake it for him.”

  His mother turned round, her expression waspish. When she spoke her tone was sharp.

  “If you take my advice you will have nothing to do with Bart Sadler. He might be my brother, but he is no good. I would also like to know how he came about his so-called fortune.”

 

‹ Prev