The Carpenter's Children

by Maggie Bennett

  ‘Yeah,’ responded Tom thoughtfully. ‘We none of us know what the future holds for any of our children – and I reckon there’s not a lot we can do for them as they get older and go their own ways.’

  ‘Your Ernest’s still at home, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, his mother’s happy to go on cooking and washing for him,’ answered Tom with a shrug. ‘He pays her, of course – well, he can afford to, he’s got a good job with that insurance firm.’

  ‘Jews, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t make any difference. They keep to their religion and Ernest keeps to his, and apart from that you’d think he was one of the family. No hanging round pubs and chasing after girls for our Ernest!’

  ‘Good,’ said Eddie who’d heard that Ernest Munday and the junior partner in Schelling and Pascoe were as thick as thieves.

  The train had passed through Clapham Junction and Vauxhall, and the tracks were converging as it approached the terminus. Isabel’s heart beat a little faster as she glimpsed the Thames with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on the other side. London! In minutes she would be at Waterloo, where Mark Storey had said he would await her at the ticket barrier.

  ‘I’ll come up with you, Isabel,’ her father had said, but she had refused his offer. She was grown-up now, and wanted no witnesses to her meeting with her intended husband. Things just might be awkward, for there were undoubtedly uncertainties; their declaration of love had taken place on one afternoon, a time span of less than two hours, to be weighed against a separation of two years, and Mark might be disappointed in this older Isabel. How would he greet her?

  The moment had arrived. Isabel took hold of her suitcase and stepped down from the carriage. She was a long way from the ticket barrier; would he be there?

  ‘Isabel!’ He was here on the platform, only a few yards away! She looked up at a dark-suited figure with a clerical collar, older than she remembered, partly due to his having grown sideboards, but there were the beginnings of deep grooves from his nose to the corners of his mouth, giving him a sterner appearance, and there were lines around his eyes; yet Isabel saw only the love in those remembered grey eyes, the incredulous joy. He was still the Mark she had known so briefly, and with whom she had exchanged a couple of dozen bland letters, passed through her father’s hands.

  As for the Reverend Mark Storey, he was transfixed. The young girl he had loved almost from first sight was now an even more beautiful young woman in her wide, flower-decked hat, silk blouse and tailored skirt; what would she think of him? How must he appear to her now?

  He was soon left in no doubt of her unchanged heart. She had set down her suitcase and was walking towards him, holding out her gloved hands.

  ‘Mark!’ He prepared to take her hands in his, but she slid naturally into his arms, closely enfolded against his heart, her face uplifted to his, inviting his kiss on her mouth. Her hat came adrift from its pins and fell to the platform, where it was picked up by a woman who handed it back to her with a reproachful look: such goings-on in public, and with a man of the cloth!

  ‘Let me take your case, Isabel – there’s a cab waiting outside,’ he said a little breathlessly as she replaced her hat on her tumbling hair. He took her arm to lead her through the barrier and across the wide, thronging concourse of the station.

  ‘How I’ve lived and longed for this moment, Isabel. I can’t believe that it’s really true – that it’s you again at last!’

  She looked up at him with shining eyes. ‘But it is true, Mark, I’m here and so happy to be with you again!’

  The open horse-drawn cab took them quite a long way, at first through scenes that Isabel knew from a day visit with a group from St Peter’s Church, the landmarks of history and the heart of the city. They passed through wide streets with huge shops, theatres and restaurants which Isabel found rather overwhelming; this was the London her sister dreamt of, she thought, the bright lights and the glamour that Grace was determined to be part of one day. They journeyed up Ludgate Hill and passed under the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, at which Isabel looked up in awe, which made Mark smile.

  ‘You’ll find St Barnabas’ Church a little less imposing, my Isabel.’

  ‘I shall prefer it,’ she answered contentedly.

  East of St Paul’s the shops gave way to housing, and the neighbourhoods became noticeably shabbier; soon they came to narrower streets with tightly-packed terraced houses opening directly on to the pavement, and backing against another row of similar dwellings separated by narrow communal yards, across some of which lines of washing were hung. Women stood talking outside small butchers’ and grocers’ shops, and a group of children, some with no shoes, gathered round a lamp post, yelling up at two boys who had climbed it. There were a number of public houses, some with a jug and bottle door, and Isabel knew that premises with the three balls sign were pawnshops.

  ‘This is my parish, Isabel,’ said Mark quietly. ‘I came here as curate, and now I’m its vicar. It’s a long way from North Camp and St Peter’s, and I shall quite understand if you do not want to make your home here. One day I’ll be transferred to another parish, but that may not be for—’

  ‘Hush, Mark,’ she interrupted, holding up her gloved hand. ‘You’ve told me so much about this place in your letters, and haven’t I told you how much I’ve longed to share it with you, and help serve these people as you do? I want to be where you are, Mark, haven’t I written that often enough?’

  He could only nod and squeeze her hand, for he could not trust himself to speak. She pointed to a church spire a couple of streets away.

  ‘Is that St Barnabas’ over there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s my church and this is Old Nichol Street, sometimes called Old Nick’s Street, not without reason,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Go on a little further, driver, into Ainsworth Road, and it’s number thirty-seven – and oh, there’s Mrs Clements at her door, bless her, waiting for us!’

  Number thirty-seven was one of a long terraced row, with gleaming windows and a well-scrubbed white doorstep. Mrs Clements was a neatly dressed woman of about fifty, in a black blouse and skirt, her greying hair drawn back into a bun on the crown of her head, fastened with two large tortoiseshell pins. Her eyes softened at the sight of Mark, but she looked questioningly at Isabel, as if wondering whether to shake her hand or curtsey.

  ‘Here she is, Mrs Clements – Miss Isabel Munday who is visiting our parish for the weekend,’ said Mark with easy familiarity as he helped Isabel down with her suitcase. ‘Mrs Clements is the mainstay of St Barnabas’, Isabel, a lady I can always rely on in difficult times!’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Munday, very pleased to meet yer,’ said the reliable lady in an unmistakable London accent. She held out her hand. ‘It’ll be till Monday afternoon, then?’

  Isabel nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll be staying until then. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Clements.’

  ‘Well, ye’d better come in. I’ve put the kettle on, and the front room’s ready.’

  ‘I’ll take Miss Munday’s case up to her room, shall I?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Certainly not, Mr Storey! Clements’ll carry that up for her,’ replied the lady, clearly shocked at the very idea of him entering the bedroom of a female guest. She led them both into a small, rather overfurnished front parlour, and Mark smiled at this sign of respect; front parlours were only used on very special occasions.

  To Isabel the room felt cold and unlived-in. She sat down on an armchair and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Clements.

  ‘What time d’yer want yer tea, Miss Munday?’

  The term tea was also used in the Munday household to denote the evening meal, and Isabel hesitated; Mark broke in to explain what he had planned.

  ‘When Miss Munday’s seen her room and has settled in, I’d like to show her over the church, Mrs Clements.’

  ‘What, before she’s had her tea, Mr Storey?’

  ‘Yes, please, if it won’t inconven
ience you.’

  ‘Right, when she’s ready I’ll bring her over.’

  Isabel was about to say that she could make her own way to the church, but Mark silently placed a finger over his mouth. When Isabel had drunk her tea, seen her room and freshened up at the wash bowl on a marble-topped stand, Mrs Clements put on a hat and jacket and escorted her over to the small, soot-bricked vicarage. She rapped on the brass knocker, and when a smiling Mark appeared to take Isabel over to the church, Mrs Clements followed them; while he pointed out objects of interest to Isabel, Mrs Clements sat herself down in a pew at the back. When the couple reached the altar rail and were out of earshot, Mark whispered an explanation.

  ‘She’s a good-hearted, hard-working soul, Isabel, and as concerned for my reputation as she is for yours,’ he said with a smile.

  Isabel smiled back, but uncomprehendingly. ‘How do you mean, Mark?’

  ‘Anybody who saw us coming into an empty church will have seen our chaperone, too.’

  ‘Oh, Mark! Does this mean that she’ll come with us everywhere?’

  ‘No, my love, not everywhere, only in the church if there’s no service on, and certainly in the vicarage. Don’t be hard on her, Isabel, I care about your reputation, too, and I don’t want you talked about!’

  Isabel nodded and said that she understood, but privately she felt that Mrs Clements combined admiration of the Rev. Mr Storey with a suspicion, even a vague disapproval, of this chit of a girl who was so obviously after him.

  So the sooner they were married, the better.

  ‘Grace seems to have found her niche at Stepaside,’ remarked Tom Munday.

  ‘Yes, for the time being – I mean, while she’s so young,’ replied his wife who had opposed the idea of Grace leaving school early to get work as a waitress, no matter how genteel the place. At least it wasn’t in North Camp where every move would be watched.

  ‘She’s got a good woman to teach her and keep an eye on her there, Vi, that’s what I’m pleased about.’

  ‘Mrs Brangton? Yes, and Miss Brangton, too – it sounds as if they both like her,’ said Violet. ‘It’ll be good training for her.’

  ‘In more ways than one,’ replied Tom. ‘You can see that it suits her, by the way she dresses and behaves – she’s a changed girl. I said it would do her good.’

  ‘Let’s just hope it continues,’ said his wife with a sniff. She hadn’t much liked being overridden, and didn’t want to show too much enthusiasm. It was bad enough for Isabel to go gallivanting off to London for a weekend with that curate, for so Mrs Munday still regarded Mr Storey. Thank heaven for Ernest, doing so well at Schelling and Pascoe, and content to live at home, though she knew that Tom vaguely disapproved, instead of being thankful for a good, hard-working, home-loving son.

  As for Grace, the episode with Mrs Bentley-Foulkes still rankled, and she had begun to feel a little bored with the refinement of Stepaside, the rarefied atmosphere of high-class tea rooms presided over by a lady of quality who swanned among her guests, just as if she had not been cake-making all the morning. Grace liked earning a small wage of her own, and she told herself that it didn’t cost anything to bow and scrape, but Stepaside was not the only place to eat in Everham. The Railway Hotel did brisk business with the dinner trade or, as it was beginning to be called, lunch, served from midday to businessmen, commercial travellers and representatives of firms – and more recently, the military and naval personnel travelling between London and Southampton. These clients needed more than soup and little bits and pieces on toast, and when Grace heard roars of male laughter from the hotel restaurant, her curiosity was aroused; she wondered how much could be earned by a waitress serving steak-and-kidney pies and mutton chops to its patrons – men who would give her a second look and might even exchange pleasantries with her, not to mention the tips pressed into her hand. There was only one way to find out: by going to see the manager as soon as she left Stepaside at closing time, even if it meant missing her bus.

  With a thumping heart she entered the Railway Hotel by the front door which opened into a narrow lobby. A middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and smoking a cigarette stood talking to a younger man.

  ‘Mr Coggins won’t want to be disturbed at this time o’day,’ he told Grace when she asked if she might speak to the manager. ‘What’s it about?’

  Grace knew that a firm approach would be preferable to the shyness she felt.

  ‘I’m enquiring about any vacancies for staff to serve lunches,’ she said boldly.

  ‘We don’t need no extra kitchen staff,’ the man replied with a discouraging shake of his head, and for a moment Grace’s hopes were dashed. She was not going to be put off by this man, however.

  ‘Well, perhaps my name could be put down as a possible future waitress,’ she volunteered, raising her voice, and at that moment Mr Coggins called from his office.

  ‘Who is it, Tubby?’

  ‘Only a slip of a girl askin’ about a job servin’ lunches,’ the man called back.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I’m sixteen, sir!’ cried Grace, adding a year to her age.

  ‘Fetch her in, Tubby, and let’s have a look.’

  Grace didn’t need Tubby to fetch her anywhere, but stepped smartly to the half-open door where Mr Coggins sat at a desk, a glass at his elbow. He looked her up and down.

  ‘We’ve only just taken on that lad from the Union, CC,’ said Tubby irritably.

  ‘Yeah, but this is a girl. Any experience, missie?’ asked Mr Coggins.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m at present employed by Mrs Brangton at Stepaside.’

  ‘Oho, so you know your manners. Well, I’m sorry, Miss…er, what was the name?’

  ‘Miss Munday, sir.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Munday, but I don’t need any new staff right now.’

  ‘But Mr Coggins—’

  ‘Right, you ’eard what Mr Coggins said, so off yer go,’ said Tubby nastily, but Mr Coggins held up his hand.

  ‘Wait a minute, there might be a job for her later on, Tubby, and not so far off, neither,’ he said in a low tone but perfectly audible to Grace.

  ‘’Ow’d yer make that out, CC?’

  ‘We could get a lot busier if there’s any, er, trouble,’ said Mr Coggins cryptically. ‘All right, Miss Munday, you can go back to your posh Mrs Brangton, and I’ll know where you are if I need more staff, right?’

  To which Grace could only smile, nod and say politely, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Coggins. Good evening.’

  And ignoring Tubby, she walked out of the Railway Hotel with her head held as high as if she had not received a disappointment.

  July, 1914

  It was Saturday, the first in July. Aaron and his uncle had taken the train to London, to observe the Sabbath at their family’s synagogue, and Ernest was in charge of the office, with a new girl at the typewriter. Windows were open to let in what breeze there was, and there was very little business: a couple of inquiries about farm and shop insurance, and a client paying his premium in cash, coins carefully saved in a money box; there being no bank in North Camp other than the post office, the firm was used to dealing with cash payments delivered by hand. Ernest had time, therefore, to indulge his secret passion undisturbed except for the occasional ping of the doorbell.

  He opened his exercise book of blank lined pages, and dipped his pen in the inkpot. His head was full of images, and as he tried to capture them on paper, they turned themselves into sentences, and fresh pictures came to his mind. He wrote of eternal sounds of summer and the silent tread of dusk upon these hills. The landscape that he loved was his subject, and he saw himself as a rural poet in the tradition of John Clare and Thomas Gray; but now a new theme was emerging, and whether he walked by ancient pathways through the woods or lingered beside a familiar stream, he found that his lines were leading in a direction he had not planned, yet which seemed so right and natural.

  Beneath the deep, dark shadow of the yew, you lie with limbs outstretched, he wrote, and
In softly shifting clouds a face appears to me and me alone.

  In blaze of noon, in coolness after rain, your steps return again, and yet again.

  Again, again, again. Ernest’s half-formed sentences took shape as four-lined verses with a rhyming couplet at the end of each, a refrain, a moment shared and recalled: And each fair vista speaks to me of you. He crossed out you and wrote thee. His pen flew across the pages, writing a poem. A love poem.

  Ernest put down his pen and closed his eyes, for these innocent verses revealed to him that at twenty his restless heart had found a focus. He smiled. Undeclared and unreturned his love might be, yet it filled his heart and life, raising him up to walk with kings and gods.

  ‘Ernest, old chap! There’s a rare crop of rumours going around London about this business in Sarajevo!’

  ‘Where?’ Ernest was taken off guard by Aaron’s sudden appearance in the office, shortly before it was due to close.

  ‘Sarajevo, it’s in Serbia – this unfortunate Archduke Franz Ferdinand!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, the one who was shot dead in the street last Sunday – they’re saying that it’ll trigger off the most enormous political explosion – it could even lead to war!’

  ‘But why?’ asked Ernest in bewilderment. ‘What has this man’s murder got to do with us, Aaron?’

  And in all the time that lay ahead, Ernest never found a satisfactory answer to his question.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  July–August, 1914

  Nobody could remember a more glorious summer. Front and back doors stood open, and everybody wanted to be outside; as soon as the children came out of school, they ran off to play on the common or down by the Blackwater which was so low that even children could wade across it, and punts that drifted too near the banks got stuck in the mud. Cricket pitches and tennis courts echoed to the sound of bat and racquet against ball, and the cheers that rose from the onlookers sitting in the shade. It was a time of sunbathing and swimming, picnics and trips to the seaside.