The Dissent of Annie Lang

by Ros Franey

  I shake my head. ‘They didn’t make me before I went to France, and no one’s mentioned it since I came home. I hope they forget!’ I add with feeling.

  ‘Ooh, I don’t blame you. I told her, your stepmother, I was doing the instruction just to keep her quiet, really. I think she was a bit shocked I were married to Ernest. But, you know, you don’t think of all these things when you’re in love, do you? I didn’t realise I’d be taking on all this. Ernest, bless him, he’ll not force me. Like you, I think I’m hoping it’ll all go away in time.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do it unless you really believe,’ I tell her seriously. ‘You can always say you’re having a problem with a bit of scripture. It’s a good stalling tactic.’ I grin at her. ‘I’m working on it myself!’

  ‘’S all very well for you,’ she says, ‘with your book-learning and college an’ that, but I don’t think they’d believe me, do you, if I started arguing about the scripture?’ She throws back her head and laughs.

  I ask her about Marjorie and she tells me her little sister’s doing an apprenticeship at Boots the Chemist in town. ‘She was that glad to get it: they’re so good to them, Annie. You wouldn’t believe the trouble they go to. She works in the shop and goes for training on day-release. And there’s all these extra-curricular activities, sports events and all sorts. And,’ she confides, ‘they get staff discount. Imagine!’ She rolls her eyes to heaven. ‘My, what that saves me on stuff for the baby. It’s a godsend. Aye, we’re right proud of our Marjorie. I was quite envious myself when she got the job, but of course, being married, it’s out of the question for me. And I wouldn’t swap our Ernest for Boots the Chemist, not even for the staff discount.’

  I decide I rather like this straight-talking, jolly woman and wonder why Beatrice was so down on her at school. After chatting some more about Marjorie and her mother – the powerful Mrs Bagshaw, whom I remember all too well from the dreaded outing to Goose Fair – Iris confides they’re a bit bemused that she’s married to Ernest and is on the road to joining the congregation of the Golgotha Mission. I can sort of see their point: she’s not exactly Mission material.

  But Iris is frank about this, as she is – one imagines – about most things. ‘To be honest, Annie, I’m not bothered about the believing side of it. If they say He’s up there and we’re going to be saved, that’s fine by me. Well, of course there’s the pledge.’ She pulls a face. ‘Have you had to sign the pledge?’

  I nod. ‘We all did. But I didn’t mind because I don’t drink anyway. Well, except a bit of wine in France.’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘Well, that’s you damned, for one, then!’

  ‘It was mixed with water, mind,’ I say, laughing too.

  ‘Oh Annie, you are a one! No, it’s none of that. With the drink, I can take it or leave it. It’s actually, it’s …’ She hesitates, not laughing now. ‘I don’t know how to put it.’

  I wait.

  ‘It’s the gap,’ she says, ‘between what people say and what they do.’ She looks at me. ‘I suppose you’d call it the hypocrisy. There, I’ve said it now. I didn’t ought to tell you that, did I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She twists her hands in her lap. ‘Well, I mean, it’s your family, in’t it? Not the pastor, your grandfather – I’m sure he’s a good man. Oh, I don’t know what’s got me into this, Annie. I’m in deep water now.’ She breaks off, biting her lip.

  ‘Please, Iris,’ I prompt her. I suddenly very much want to know what she’s going to say.

  ‘Well, you know, it’s your father, really.’

  ‘What about him?’ I can feel the butterflies beating at my stomach wall.

  ‘I know he was very much upset when your poor mother died. I were only a nipper then, of course, but yours is a big family in the area and you made friends with our Marjorie when you went to school, so I do know your family a bit. But then, much later, after I was with Ernest, I heard about that poor girl. Millie Blessing. The one they threw out of the Mission.’ She can’t meet my eye. She’s looking down at her hands.

  I can think of nothing to say. It’s clearly true, then: everyone knows.

  ‘I mean …’ She’s addressing her left foot. ‘She got the heave-ho from the congregation. But he got nothing at all. When he’d been, you know—’ She stops.

  ‘What? He’d been what?’ I ask. ‘Were they having an affair? What happened, Iris? I want to understand.’

  She looks up at me. ‘Of course, you weren’t told. You were too little, and even if you weren’t too little it’s not a proper thing for a girl in a nice family to know … that her own father is having … relations … with a young girl.’ She pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘And it’s not the young girl’s choice … Because it wasn’t, Annie.’ She’s watching me, unsure how much to say.

  ‘Go on,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re a grown-up now and you should be told the truth, because it’s your family.’ She pauses. ‘That girl, Millie, wanted to say no, but she couldn’t, Annie. She was only a kiddie. He kept finding her out. I think he was a bit … funny about her, really. She was trapped.’

  I stare at her. ‘I can’t believe it,’ I say.

  She looks up at me, her eyes full of sorrow. ‘Our Ernest’s mother was involved in trying to intercede with the elders, or whatever you call them. That’s how I know. And it wasn’t just once or twice before he got her – you know, with the baby. It went on for some time.’ She stops, biting her lip, looking at me uneasily. ‘Well, for three or four years, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘It can’t have,’ I breathe. ‘She’s not a lot older than Beatrice!’

  ‘I know, duck. But I’m afraid it did. They didn’t find out about it for a long while, but Ernest’s mother told me she found her one day, sobbing in the vestry, and it all came out. So then my mother-in-law, who was the verger’s wife, of course, and a couple of the other women in the congregation spoke to their husbands – because, obviously, a woman can do nothing. And they, the men, went to see Mr Lang about it. But the trouble is with these people, Annie, they don’t call a spade a spade. I mean you know them … I would have come out and said it, because that’s the way I am, but that lot are so sort of polite and respectful, it’s my opinion they probably didn’t rightly tell their husbands what was going on! They probably just complained he were being, you know, as some middle-aged men are with attractive young girls. Anyway, nothing changed. And in the end, well, we know what went down. He was the pastor’s son-in-law and sort of untouchable really. She had no father to stand up for her. Poor girl. The Blessings left town. I suppose the baby was adopted. He should have seen to that, at least. I hate to think what’s happened to Millie now.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say. There is a long silence. I look at Iris Wilkinson and she looks at me.

  ‘And that’s why I can’t go for all this … religious stuff,’ she finishes quietly.

  ‘Does my sister know?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t told her, anyhow. I haven’t told anyone, in fact. Not me mam, nor Marjorie. I know it would put them off Ernest too much – and, bless him, it’s nowt to do with him, is it?’

  I’m feeling dizzy and short of breath. I need to get away and think, but I’m not sure my legs will take me anywhere.

  Iris seems to understand. ‘Bless you, Annie, and here’s me not even giving you a cup of tea. Stay there a moment, duckie. The kettle’s hot.’

  ‘No, I—’ I grip the arms of the chair and try to stand, but she jumps up ahead of me and sits me firmly down again. The tea, when she brings it, is strong and sweet. Sugar for the shock, I remember from somewhere. We talk a little more about Marjorie as I drink it, though my mind is spinning and the cup rattles in the saucer.

  Then she says, ‘Actually, Annie, I was thinking out there’ – she nods towards the kitchen – ‘that there’s one more thing I ought to tell you. It’s about your stepmother.’

  ‘Goodnes
s, Iris, d’you think she knows about this?’

  Iris looks at me, straight, as if weighing something up. ‘Mrs Lang knows all right.’ She hesitates. Then she says, ‘Left to myself, I wouldn’t have said this, you know. It’s not my place, and we barely know each other, after all.’ She smiles for a moment. Then she says, ‘It was she asked me to tell you, Annie.’

  ‘She? Who?’

  ‘Mrs Lang. Your stepmother.’ Her worried gaze is searching my face.

  ‘What?’

  She nods.

  My mind’s reeling. ‘When? When did she ask you?’

  ‘She asked me yesterday.’ Iris twiddles the ring on her finger. ‘She said she’d send you to see me. That’s why I was a bit shocked when you turned up the very next day!’ Then looking up in alarm, ‘Don’t you go telling her I said that!’

  ‘Of course not!’ My mouth is dry again.

  ‘She’s known about your father and that poor little girl a good while, so I believe. To be honest, I think she’s had it up to here.’ Iris raises her hand briefly and lets it drop. ‘Of course, she didn’t say owt, but I could see she were at the end of her tether. What it must be like, living with that…’

  But I can’t understand how they were even talking about it – Mother who abhors gossip! I look at her, speechless.

  Iris guesses what I’m thinking. ‘It was when I said my maiden name was Bagshaw, she asked if I were related to Marjorie, your school-friend. I told her I was at school with Beatrice and she – she – it was odd, really, but she said there was something weighing on her mind – something she’d just found out, apparently.’ Iris is frowning as she tries to get it right: ‘She said that girl who was expelled from the Mission is still paying a high price; and she was bothered about whether in the eyes of the Lord you’ve committed a sin if you do it without consent.’ She waves a hand. ‘Or some such. Anyway, “consent” was the word she used.’

  As the shock starts to sink in, the second feeling to wash over me is shame. ‘How – how could she have said all this to you, Iris? She never … allows herself to say anything to us about her feelings!’ I’m thinking we never give her the chance.

  ‘Oh, but you must have done this – well, maybe you’re too young,’ Iris says, with a smile. ‘You find yourself confessing things to a stranger you’d never say within the walls of your own home. Then … I suppose she thought I’m a good person to tell you really, with knowing about what happened through my mother-in-law, and knowing you and Beatrice. When you think of it, I’m one of the few people who could tell you. And, well, we were talking about babies, weren’t we, with my sick little one.’ She glances at the clock again.

  I put down the empty cup and manage to smile at her. ‘You must go, Iris. Thanks so much for the tea.’

  She looks at me anxiously. ‘I’ll need to be getting back up there before too long, but I can’t just throw you out, Annie, feeling like you do. Not after a shock like this.’

  ‘No, I’m fine now. Honestly.’ This time I do stand. ‘I so hope your baby is better when you get there.’

  ‘Bless you,’ she says. She leaves the room for a moment and returns with her hat and coat. ‘Here, I’ll walk you up the road a bit. It’s on my way.’

  We walk in silence. When we part, she says, ‘I’m sorry it had to be me to do it, Annie. I wished she might have told you herself. But, she couldn’t. It wasn’t in her nature, I suppose, yet she said it was time you knew. Poor Mrs Lang.’ She sighs. ‘So I promised her I’d see to it. How could I refuse?’

  I don’t know how I got home after that. I’m sitting here upstairs after tea, my head bursting with doubt and arguments and questions. Bea has said Iris Bagshaw is not reliable. Is Iris telling the truth about this? I must speak to Beatrice, immediately, this very weekend, but that may not get us any further. What’s certain is that I can’t tell this part to Fred, for surely he cannot know it himself.

  Thankfully, my father is out at a meeting; I don’t have to face him over tea, and Mother is on her way to Bible Circle, so our meal is businesslike and short. She doesn’t even ask me if I’ve seen Iris, and I can’t tell her. I know I am in shock, but I must make plans. I have to talk it all through with Beatrice. Next, I must somehow find out if this really happened: though who apart from Millie Blessing herself can ever confirm it?

  If Iris’s version of events is true, I can’t begin to know what it means for me – for all of us, our father’s children. I think it will change our lives very much. There’s an abyss inside me that I can’t go near, a gouging-out and soiling of goodness; and that’s all I can say for now. I long to discover that Iris is wrong, and none of this is true.

  Then I remember the cellar, and I strongly suspect she is right.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Saturday, August 20

  Beatrice and I are facing each other over a table covered in a stiff white linen cloth. She has taken me to tea in Dickins & Jones. My fingers of toast spread with Gentleman’s Relish are going soggy on the plate in front of me.

  ‘Come on, Annie, it’s all the rage!’ says Beatrice.

  I smile wanly, feeling sick, pick up a slice and bite into it. Actually, it’s good. I finish the whole slice; at least it puts off the moment.

  ‘Anchovy!’ says Beatrice proudly.

  ‘Ooh Miss Lang,’ I put on my best East Midlands accent. ‘So sophisticated. You and your London ways!’

  ‘I discovered it because I had to send some out to the Reverend Richardson,’ Beatrice explains. ‘Six jars dispatched by sea to Peking! They do like their little refinements, my ministers. Anyway, you know from Auntie Francie how rarely they get home on furlough.’

  This intriguing detail of Beatrice’s working life triggers a whole inquisition on my part as to what else the missionaries out in China and Africa ask her to send them. She counts the shopping list off on her fingers: ink and cocoa powder to Ethiopia, a hairnet to Rhodesia, Marks & Spencer’s knickers (they were for Mrs Richardson in Peking), sweet pea and lettuce seeds, a hot-water bottle …

  ‘Hot-water bottle?’

  ‘That was for southern Sudan.’

  ‘But it’s Africa!’

  ‘Juba’s a desert town. Freezing at night.’ Beatrice is proud of knowing these things. ‘Annie, of all the places they go to, I would so love to be in that desert …’ She sighs. ‘Oh yes, and they wanted charcoal biscuits for their dog.’

  ‘That’s sweet,’ I say wistfully. Then, ‘But Beatrice …’

  ‘I know. You didn’t come rushing down to London to hear this.’

  I sit on my hands. I stare at my plate. How can I do to her what Iris Bagshaw did to me? It’s just a day ago, but it has changed my whole life.

  ‘Come on, girl. I’m all ears!’

  So I take a deep breath and tell her the version I’ve rehearsed: how I stumbled across Miss Blessing at the hospital when I volunteered to play for the concert. (I don’t say how much plotting and planning it took.) How Miss Blessing told me about the baby and Fred told me whose baby it was. And finally I tell her about Iris Bagshaw, now Iris Wilkinson, and how it seemed to be that our father Harry Lang had – had—Beatrice cuts me off before I can finish the sentence. ‘I know,’ she says.

  I look up at her in alarm. ‘You knew?’

  Beatrice puts her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, which she would never normally do in public, and whispers, ‘I saw them. And Annie, I think you saw them, too. That night. You know.’

  I stare at her. Beatrice’s face has gone white and she looks sort of hollow and suddenly older. ‘I … came upon them, one night when I was walking home from Junior Fellowship—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right by the house.’ She shakes her head. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘For goodness sake, Annie! It was dark. She was … sort of, crying.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t understand what I’d seen. I just kne
w I had to get away fast. Then later, when you saw it too, I realised it was something very wrong. It was only all that time afterwards, when it blew up at the Mission, I understood what it was.’ She drops her gaze. A tear splashes on to her plate. After a moment or two she says, ‘And it changed everything.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’

  She looks up at me from behind her tear-stained spectacles. ‘Are you crazy? Of course not!’ And then, more gently, ‘Who would I tell? Fred was away at school. You were too small. Mother …’ The word hung over the table between us. She went on, ‘I would have gone and told our own mother in her grave, but I didn’t want her to know. Actually—’ A sob breaks from her. She stifles it. ‘You’ll think I’m mad. The only person I could tell was Nana.’

  Now I’m very close to crying as well. I’d have told Nana, too. A woman from a table across the aisle is staring in our direction. I glare at her and she quickly looks away.

  ‘I still have nightmares,’ says Beatrice.

  I want to give her a hug, but you can’t in Dickins & Jones. All I can do is sit there like a prune. I reach across the table and put my hand on hers.

  She raises her head and smiles wanly. Then she rummages in her bag for a hanky and blows her nose. ‘Afterwards, I mean when I was old enough to understand more, I thought I should have done something.’ She is gazing down at her empty plate in agony. ‘I should have done something. I did nothing, Annie.’

  ‘Bea, you couldn’t have. If people like the Wilkinsons and all those Mission folk couldn’t stop it, what could you have done? I mean, when was this?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘Well, it was a few months after Millie Blessing came to the Mission, so I was eleven, maybe, when I saw it – fourteen when I realised what it was.’

  ‘There you are, then. Who’d have even listened?’

  I wonder what I’d have done. Would I have gone to the police? In my head, of course, I’d told them about Mother – but that was make-believe. Could a child actually go to the police about her own father? My father! Unthinkable. I say, ‘But now we can do something about it, Bea – sort of, make amends.’