by Ros Franey
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘but you know he can see all sorts of things going on that you’re not even aware of!’
‘I’m not sure I’d like that,’ I tell her.
‘Well,’ she admits, ‘I don’t meet with him very often these days: he’s such a busy man. But whenever I do, he seems to have a very clear idea of how I am. He’s remarkable.’
After this beginning, I’m at a loss for words and Miss Blessing may have sensed I don’t quite share her admiration, because she, too, suddenly seems to feel constrained. For several minutes we make polite conversation about the choir and the performance, which is not too bad, to my way of thinking. The singers are already starting to return to their seats, when Millie suddenly blurts out, ‘I’m afraid I may have said too much at our last meeting.’
‘Not at all,’ I reply hurriedly, hoping we’re not going to have to discuss it.
‘I wanted to apologise,’ she continues. ‘I probably shouldn’t have said as much as I said.’
I stare ahead of me, at the piano keys.
‘It must have come as … as a shock, if you didn’t already know it.’
Not as much of a shock as what you didn’t tell me, I think to myself. But all I say is, ‘I hope it didn’t upset you too much to speak of it.’ I can’t turn and look at her.
‘It was…’ she falters. ‘It was the first time for a few years I had allowed myself to dwell on it – in any, you know, detail.’
I nod.
There is an awkward pause.
‘I hope …’ she resumes, hesitantly; she is clearly struggling with herself. ‘I don’t want you to think badly of me, Annie.’
I shoot her a glance at that.
She continues, ‘I would hate you to misunderstand. It is more complicated … as I think I said, there is more—’
‘I know,’ I tell her hurriedly. I can’t bear it if she’s going to confess to what Fred has already told me.
But she says, ‘There are things I cannot speak to you about, though I wish I knew of someone who could.’
‘Please,’ I say, panic probably audible in my voice, ‘you have told me enough. I mean, you mustn’t upset yourself any more.’
There is another uncomfortable silence. She says diffidently, ‘You made a promise.’
‘I did.’
‘Annie, I don’t want to hold you to that promise.’
Into the chapel sweeps Dr Squires again. ‘Hush,’ I tell her. ‘We can’t talk now.’
But she repeats in a fierce whisper: ‘Without your knowing the whole story, I cannot hold you to it, and I won’t. Do you understand?’
I realise this is what she set herself to tell me tonight. Having been less than frank last time, at least she has the grace to set me free from any commitment to help her. And she’s burning her boats because I must have been her only hope of getting out of here. For the first time since learning the truth from Fred, I feel a flicker of admiration for her. When the singing resumes, I see her fingers are shaking uncontrollably over the keys.
TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, August 17
During these weeks I’ve been visiting Miss Blessing and working on the music, I have also continued to volunteer on the short-term women’s ward. It’s after a particularly arduous session today, when I’ve had to deal with an outburst from one of the patients who mistook me for her maths teacher from thirty years ago, that Daddy suddenly raises the subject of the hospital choir during tea. Mother has been detained with an emergency visit in the parish, so at least I don’t have to suffer interrogation from her; but of course, the choir is a dangerous subject. I simply don’t know how much Daddy follows Miss Blessing’s progress; I hope not at all.
‘I hear you have taken on an extra duty at the hospital,’ he says.
I wonder how he knows. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘They were asking for an accompanist for the choir, the staff choir, for their next concert. It’s a job I was happy to volunteer for, as you can imagine.’
Daddy frowns. ‘Don’t they have a resident pianist, then?’
I decide to misunderstand the question. ‘Oh yes. But with it being holiday time, he’s away for this concert.’
‘So does this person, who’s away, play for all their rehearsals?’
‘Um, no,’ I say, wondering where this is leading. ‘How do you know about the choir, Daddy, is it something the Mechanics’ is involved in? Actually, they’re rather good. They’re singing some quite complicated music: the Mozart Requiem and some Parry …’ I can hear myself gabbling on.
‘So who usually plays?’
‘Oh, I think a few people …’
‘Patients?’ He is looking at me intently.
‘Possibly.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know much about it, to be honest. I’ve only been to one rehearsal so far.’
‘So who played for the other rehearsals?’
‘A patient, I believe.’
‘You believe? Didn’t you meet this person?’
‘Dad-dee!’ I push my chair back and go to the scullery to fetch more hot water, with an attempted throwaway, ‘Why the third degree?’ It’s meant to be teasing but it sounds a bit desperate. ‘I never knew you were so interested in Mozart!’
Before he can answer, the door opens and Mother comes in. ‘What about Mozart?’ she asks.
‘Oh Mother, how are you?’ I greet her, thinking I was never so relieved to see her in my life.
‘Better now than I was,’ she says. She adjusts the scarf at her neck and pats her hair. ‘The doctor didn’t want to come out, but I spoke to him on the telephone and he did come eventually. He managed to persuade the hospital to take the poor child.’
‘Why, what was the matter?’ I suddenly have a keen interest in the plight of these parishioners: anything to change the subject.
Mother is feeling pleased with herself, as well she might. ‘It was a rash. Children get them, after all, and the doctor thought the mother was making a fuss. But when he saw the baby he agreed with me that this was almost certainly scarlet fever.’ She goes into the scullery to wash her hands. ‘The Lord be praised for opening the doctor’s eyes,’ she adds, when she comes back. Poor Mother: she must never let herself take credit for anything.
‘The Lord be praised that you were there to persuade the doctor!’ I say pointedly. ‘Here you are. I made a fresh pot … Will the baby be all right, d’you think? Do I know the family?’
‘You would know them,’ Mother replies tartly, ‘if you spent more time in St Ann’s where you belong, and less at that hospital.’
Daddy says, ‘She’s got a new duty at the hospital, Agnes. She’s playing the piano for their concert now.’
Mother looks up at me. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it, Annie. Did your father give permission?’
‘No!’ Daddy protests. ‘The girl’s out of control! I had to hear it from someone at the Lodge last night.’ So that’s how he knows. I imagine one of the tenors or basses must have recognised my name.
‘Daddy! Mother!’ I say, holding out my arms to calm them both down. ‘Please. It’s only for a few weeks, and it’s only a part of my other volunteering, which you do know about. I thought you’d be glad!’ I turn to Mother. ‘After all, it’s excellent practice for me.’
Mother grunts and takes a sip of tea. ‘You know what I think about performing on stage,’ she says tartly. ‘And, indeed, what I think about your persisting with your piano studies at all, Annie.’
There’s a pause.
Daddy says, ‘Well, Dr Squires tells me the music is difficult enough, so it will certainly be good for you.’
I freeze. If Dr Squires is his informant from the Lodge, then surely he will know about Daddy’s connection to Miss Blessing, and Daddy will almost certainly guess that she is the patient I’m replacing as accompanist. So Daddy must know about me meeting her. Why, then, is he asking me all these questions? Is he trying to force me into some kind of admission?
I concentrate supremely on not reacting to the name
of Dr Squires, even while I’m trying to work out the awful implications of what’s just been said. All right, so Daddy knows I’m taking over the piano for the concert but that’s all he knows; because Dr Squires himself only met me and heard my name for the first time two nights ago – it was clear from his reaction, which I now understand. So he doesn’t know I’ve been visiting Miss Blessing on the ward, or anything about our conversations, of course. And she won’t tell him. I must remain calm.
But then Mother is saying something, and it’s not what she says, but how, that brings me back to the present: ‘You told me he’d moved up north.’ She is staring at Daddy intently.
‘I don’t think so, Agnes.’ He is frowning. ‘Pass the pickles, will you?’
But Mother is not to be deflected. She reaches for the bowl of pickled onions and cucumbers and hands it to him. She says, ‘You told me they had both gone.’ Her voice is low and intense. ‘That because he had moved up North, she … is … no longer there.’
He is staring at her as if she’s slapped him in the face. His expression is terrifying. I look at her in alarm; she, too, seems to realise that whatever she has said is in some way unacceptable. She holds his gaze, but I see something in her eyes I’ve never seen before: it’s fear.
There’s a moment of dreadful silence and then he says, ‘Rubbish. You’re mistaken, Agnes. Not for the first time.’ He spears an onion with the pickle fork. It bobs around in the vinegar and he stabs at it again.
I look from one to the other. This is a mystery to me. My father’s cheeks are darkening. ‘Dr Squires is still in the Basford Lodge, and still at Mapperley,’ he says softly, concentrating on the onions. ‘Tell her, Annie.’
‘I only met him two nights ago,’ I say quickly. I don’t want to get dragged into this. ‘He’s the choirmaster at the hospital, that’s all I know, Mother.’ I turn to my father. ‘Fancy him being in the Lodge, Daddy.’
My father ignores this. He looks up at Mother again; his blue eyes drill into her, icy cold.
She has turned as pale as he is flushed. ‘You assured me, Harry,’ she mutters. ‘You promised.’
This is very odd. My parents never air any of their private communications in front of us. What on earth does my stepmother know of Dr Squires?
His eyes narrow, transmitting a signal: ‘You must be thinking of old Palmer,’ he tells her. ‘Moved to Preston last year.’
Mother seems to recollect herself. She drops her gaze. ‘That’s probably it,’ she says quietly. She finishes her cup of tea and leaves the room. She’s had nothing to eat.
Retreating upstairs, I have sat down to write this immediately and get some kind of order into my head. Whatever it is that bothers Mother about Dr Squires, I have some serious thinking to do about him and Daddy. Of course, I realise the Freemasons come from many professions. It’s no surprise, as soon as I think about it, that they should know each other through the Lodge, and I suppose it follows that Miss Blessing should be in Dr Squires’ care, since – what was it Marjorie told me all those years ago? – Freemasons help each other … But what are the consequences of Daddy knowing that I’ve found her?
Later, I lie sleepless in bed, wondering why my father might have told Mother that Doctor Squires had moved north? What did she mean by ‘you told me they had both gone’? My mind is running in wild circles of its own: does Dr Squires know about Daddy’s affair with Miss Blessing? Is that what’s upsetting Mother? I tell myself not to be so fanciful – anyway, I can’t waste time on that when I have to work out if I’ve lied by omission in not telling my father I’ve met Miss Blessing. I’m afraid I have lied, and because I didn’t let on about meeting her, he may guess I’ve discovered his guilty secret about the baby. I feel I’m walking over a ravine. One slip and I’m finished.
Thursday, August 18
Next morning, I see Mother leave the house early with her visiting-the-sick basket on her arm. She is out for hours; small wonder she gets so tired. I am trying to read André Gide, La Porte Étroite, from my course reading list. It’s a dreary story of self-denial, in which the heroine of the book gets drawn into the heretical doctrine of Jansenism, thereby ruining everything: my attention wanders constantly.
After lunch, which as usual is just Mother and me, she folds the tablecloth and puts it away in the drawer with great care. I’m about to leave the room when she says, ‘Sit down, Annie. I want to talk to you.’ I have the familiar rush of nerves, wondering if she’ll always make me feel like this, and sit sideways in the chair, poised for flight.
She’s silent for a moment, staring at her locked fingers as if recalling a prepared homily. Then she looks up at me and says, ‘If you’ve time to spend evenings at the hospital with this choir business, then you have time to spend days in the parish. You can start by visiting the Bagshaw woman – at least you know the family.’
‘The Bagshaws?’ I can’t take this in. ‘But – but they’re not parishioners, are they?’
‘Your school-friend Marjorie’s sister married Ernest Wilkinson,’ Mother explains. This is the verger’s son. I remember Marjorie telling me Iris was friendly with him, but … marriage? ‘It’s their baby girl has scarlet fever, as I was saying last night,’ she continues. ‘The mother – what’s her name? – is taking instruction.’
I can scarcely believe my ears: it’s odd enough about a Bagshaw girl marrying into the Mission, but the idea of Marjorie’s sister Iris taking instruction to enter our church is odder still. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You mean Iris Bagshaw, as was?’ (Just wait till I tell Beatrice!)
‘Iris. That’s it,’ Mother confirms.
‘Right. I’ll gladly visit them, Mother.’ The prospect seems suddenly much more intriguing than the miseries of André Gide. ‘I’ll go this afternoon, if you like.’
‘She’s up at the hospital this afternoon,’ Mother says. ‘I was with her earlier. You may go tomorrow.’ She nods, to dismiss me.
La Porte Étroite goes better this afternoon.
Friday, August 19
Mother sends me on Mission errands this morning, so it’s not until after lunch I set off to visit Marjorie Bagshaw’s sister. The family live in the grid of cobbled streets at the heart of St Ann’s, with a lavatory and a washing line in the back yard and a front door straight on to the pavement. As I knock and wait, I’m aware of being scrutinised by an elderly woman in carpet slippers sitting out on her front step two doors away. I say hello, feeling (as I do when I make the awkward rounds with Mother) that not much goes unnoticed around here, and she gives a curt nod back. Then the door is answered by Iris herself, whom I remember as a bosomy girl whose curves never fitted her gymslip, now large and imposing with combs in her hair and a shawl, which gives her an air of the exotic.
‘Oh my!’ she exclaims, looking somewhat alarmed. ‘I knew you were coming, but I didn’t know it would be as soon as this!’
I blink at her, wondering what Mother’s gone and said. ‘Hello, Mrs Wilkinson.’
She seems to recollect herself and breaks into a broad grin. ‘Oh please, duck – Iris. You know me as Iris, Marjorie’s sister, and I know you as Little Orphan Annie Lang, Beatrice’s sister. Come on in.’ She holds open the door. ‘Given your stepmother the slip this afternoon, have you?’
‘We were so sorry about your baby,’ I say. ‘Mother asked me to come and see what the news is and how you are.’
The door opens straight into the front parlour, two brown armchairs on either side of the empty fireplace. Newspaper is crumpled into the chimney to stop the soot falling. A hearthrug bears the scars of spitting coal, but the room is cheerful with a polished brass warming pan hanging on the wall, a playpen and a teddy bear in one corner, and books on a shelf. I see a large family Bible, presumably Ernest’s.
‘We were up at the hospital first thing and the doctor, the specialist on the children’s ward, says German measles.’ She shrugs. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Is he right? Is he wrong? So they got her out of isolation and she’s on the ward.’ Ir
is gives me a significant look. ‘If our doctor’s right and the consultant’s wrong, and they all get it – well, heaven help the other little mites!’
‘But this is good news, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m sorry, no one wants to be in hospital at all, of course, but German measles is good to have, isn’t it, and hopefully it means she can come home?’
‘Aye,’ Iris agrees, ‘if that’s what it is. Well, obviously we’re very relieved. I’ll be back up at visiting time.’ She glances at the clock.
‘I don’t want to hold you up,’ I say and make to stand, but she motions me to stay where I am.
‘No, you’re all right yet awhile, duck.’ She chuckles. ‘It’s nice to see you. How’s Beatrice doing? I don’t like to ask your mother, it seems like prying, but I heard she’s working in London.’
‘Yes. For the G-Pom.’ Iris’s eyes narrow; of course, she’s not yet familiar with the lingo! ‘That’s the missionary society that Golgotha is part of. It’s a good job. She loves it.’
‘Is she going to be a missionary, then? Goodness me! Dedicate her life to people on the other side of the world?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. She says you have to be called to do that. Chosen.’
‘Crikey. Who chooses you?’
I can’t help smiling. ‘Um. God, I think.’
‘Oh yeah. Yeah.’ She absorbs this. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Annie. This religious stuff is all new to me!’
‘Mother says you’re taking instruction. Are you going for the total immersion, then, Iris?’
She laughs. ‘Can’t say I fancy it.’ She shudders. ‘That bath, when they take up the floorboards. Bloody freezing. And I mean, you don’t know who’s been down there before, do you? And wearing a white nightie an’ all.’
‘I suppose they change the water before the ceremony?’ I suggest.
‘Well, you’ll have done it yourself, I shouldn’t wonder?’
