The Carpenter's Children

by Maggie Bennett

  Tom Munday’s thoughts were far from hopeful as he worked on a new kitchen table for Hassett Manor, and he suspected that Lady Neville had ordered it just to give him work. Carpentering jobs were not easy to come by, and there was almost no outdoor work at all: farmers mended their own fences and gates, and Harry Hutchinson’s team could replace roof tiles and repaint door frames; the builder was quick to canvass work that should rightly be Tom’s or Eddie Cooper’s.

  Poor old Eddie, he was going through a fiery hoop, and no mistake, thought Tom. Some people were so unkind about his daughter being six months’ gone, and although she never left the farm, gossip could see through walls, and Mary’s plight was known in North and South Camp, with much head shaking and reference to her mother, as if Joy Cooper’s alcohol addiction could affect her daughter’s morals. Tom Munday was angry on Eddie’s behalf, and only wished that he could do something for the friend who had always shared his own troubles. Violet had been like all the rest of the women, condemning Mary as a girl no better than she should be, and the identity of the child’s father was discussed with a certain relish; while anybody might assume that Dick Yeomans had taken advantage of her before he went away, there was always the possibility that his name was used to cover up for some other man, now that Dick was dead and unable to clear his name. When Tom Munday rebuked his wife for repeating such idle speculation, she had rounded on him and accused him of showing more sympathy to Eddie Cooper and his wayward daughter than to herself, who dreaded every minute to hear that their own son had gone the same way as poor Dick Yeomans, whose death had made him a faultless hero.

  The latest news from Eddie was that Sidney Goddard had come to him after dark to avoid being seen, and had told him that Mary was very unhappy and cried a lot. When Sidney had shyly asked her what was the matter, she’d burst into another gush of tears and said that the Yeomanses were only keeping her at the farm because of Dick’s baby, and that when the child was born they would take it from her and bring it up as their own, because after all it was their grandchild, and Mary feared being sent away. Sidney had tried in his way to comfort her, but to no avail; and remembering Eddie’s request that he should keep an eye on Mary and report anything upsetting her, he had duly come to her father.

  ‘He didn’t actually say she was being badly treated, Tom,’ said Eddie, ‘just that she was unhappy and afraid they’d dismiss her after the baby’s born. I s’pose they’d keep her on as long as she was feedin’ it, but they could turn her out as soon as it’s weaned.’ Eddie spoke contemptuously, and went on, ‘Y’know, Tom, I never did think much o’ them Yeomanses, and if she feels bad enough for Sidney to notice, she must be really upset and feelin’ alone when it’s just the time she ought to be calm an’ easy in her mind. But what the devil can I do, Tom? Go an’ see her an’ tell her to come home to me and Annie? Y’know there’s always been ill feelin’ there, though not on Annie’s part.’

  Tom Munday listened in silence, frowning as he pondered over Eddie’s dilemma; then he looked up and asked a question.

  ‘What does young Goddard think, d’ye suppose? Does he like Mary?’

  ‘Well, yeah – enough to come and tell me about her. Why?’

  ‘How d’ye think he’d feel about marryin’ her, Eddie?’

  ‘Good God, no! A booby like young Goddard marryin’ my girl? Not likely!’

  Eddie looked quite offended, and Tom thought it wise not to continue along that train of thought; but the seed had been sown, and Eddie could think it over and perhaps change his mind. Stranger things had happened.

  ‘At least you know where your daughter is, Eddie,’ he said. ‘We’ve only had two postcards from Grace, and no real news on either o’ them, just that she’s got a job and lodgings in London.’

  Eddie looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, Tom. I hope she’ll see sense one o’ these days. And – what about Isabel?’

  Tom’s mouth hardened into a straight line. ‘We’ve just had a letter from her. She’s expecting, too – after Mark Storey as good as promised me and his father that there’d be no children until the war was over, whenever that’ll be. And now he’s gone off to be an army chaplain over there, and she’s on her own in a slum parish and says she’s going to stay there. God knows whether he’ll come back or catch a bullet like Dick Yeomans. And now Jerry’s sending over aeroplanes to drop bloody bombs on London, so – these are bad times all round, Eddie.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. How old is she now, your Isabel?’

  ‘Not quite twenty-one.’

  ‘Old enough to have a kid, and she’s the sort that’d look after it well. So, Tom, we’re both goin’ to be granddads, then.’

  The two men looked at each other with a rueful smile; there just weren’t any more words to say.

  December, 1916

  ‘She did, she took him upstairs, Grace – we saw ’er, didn’t we, Audrey?’

  ‘You mean – she took him up into her room?’ asked Grace incredulously.

  ‘No, they went into Number Four,’ said Iris. ‘We ’eard the key turn in the lock.’

  ‘And…er, when did he leave?’ Grace inquired.

  ‘Dunno, but it must’ve been well after midnight, ’cause we was both fast asleep, wasn’t we, Audrey?’

  Grace considered this piece of information about Madge Fraser, the friend who had been so good to her, introducing her to Dolly’s and thereby changing her life. Now that she came to think of it, there had been times lately when she had heard unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs of 17 Lamp Street, and the sound of a door opening and shutting after Iris and Audrey had gone to bed. And the last time that she and Madge had been taken out for supper by two servicemen, Madge and her escort had disappeared while Grace was still having a long goodnight kiss and cuddle in the back of the cab with hers; the driver didn’t mind, it added to the fare and meant a good tip. When Grace had finally extricated herself from the arms of her admirer and run up the stairs to the first floor, there had been no sign of Madge, and Grace assumed that she had cut short the ritual goodnight kiss and gone to her room without waiting for her friend. But after hearing the high-wire girls’ story, she began to wonder; had Madge really taken her fellow to her room? And was it a regular occurrence? Grace told herself that it was no business of hers, but she was troubled by it, and wondered if she should speak to her friend and find out for certain what was going on. Madge had become a self-assured woman of the world since their days at the Railway Hotel – but this was surely going too far, if it was true.

  In fact, it was Madge who spoke first.

  ‘Come on, lazybones, it’s only three weeks to Chris’muss!’ she cried, bouncing on Grace’s bed. ‘It’s gorn ten o’clock, time yer was up an’ doin’!’

  Grace yawned and marvelled at her friend’s exuberance. None of the girls were early risers, having been on stage the evening before at Dolly’s. ‘Shouldn’t we be at rehearsal with Mrs Moore?’ she murmured, sitting up and stretching her arms.

  ‘Nah, it’s Sat’day, an’ Sybil Moore’s gorn off Chris’muss shoppin’, an’ that’s what we’re goin’ to do, soon as ye’ve shifted yer carcase out o’ that bed an’ put on some clo’es. C’mon, we’ll parade oursel’s down Piccadilly an’ see what’s on offer!’

  ‘I…I haven’t got a lot of spare cash, Madge,’ Grace admitted, turning down the corners of her mouth. She quite often found herself short of ready cash, and wondered how Madge managed to look so smart; today she was wearing a dark-blue hobble skirt with a tight navy jacket with white piping that showed off her waist to perfection. Her blonde hair was pinned up, and two stray locks were carefully arranged to fall in front of her ears when her wide-brimmed hat was put in place.

  ‘Don’t worry, duck, I can lend yer a bob or two if yer see somethin’ yer fancy. I got to get a present for me sister an’ ’er two little darlin’s – they’re gettin’ bigger, an’ so’s she, there’ll be another of ’em soon!’

  Grace got out of bed and went to the shared lavatory an
d washroom. She quickly dressed, and applied bright-red lipstick, peering into the small mirror on the dressing table. She put on her hat and gloves and picked up her leather handbag.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  ‘Cor! Ain’t yer got a better one than that?’ asked Madge, looking at the worn state of the leather. ‘I’ll treat yer to a new one at Selfridges.’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t let you do that,’ Grace replied, following her friend down the stairs and out into Lamp Street.

  ‘Let’s start ’ere in Piccadilly,’ said Madge, linking arms with Grace. ‘We’ll find oursel’s a nice little tea shop, somethin’ like that posh one you worked at in Everham – what was it called, Stop an’ Spend?’

  ‘No, Stepaside,’ laughed Grace, remembering Mrs Bentley-Foulkes.

  Seated at a table by a window, Madge gave Grace a long, appraising look.

  ‘Ye’re a proper little beauty, Grace. Sybil Moore says so, and so do the fellers who come to Dolly’s,’ she remarked pointedly.

  Grace flushed slightly and gave a modest shrug. ‘Nice of you to say so.’

  ‘Aw, come on, duck, don’t try to make out ye’re that innocent! Listen. Yer could earn three times as much as old George Dean doles out to us girls, and give the boys a treat before they go back to them bloody trenches. Ye’re brilliant when we’re out for supper with a couple o’ fellers, an’ ye’re not so bad with the kissin’ an’ cuddlin’ bit – an’ it’s only a short step from that to a bit of the other, d’yer see what I mean? Yer must do, ye’re blushin’ red as a beetroot!’

  ‘Yes, Madge, I think I do, but I’ve never ever done it before.’

  ‘Come orf it, yer must’ve done! Wasn’t there some bloke yer met at the Railway ’Otel? Yer used to meet ’im on yer way ’ome, same time as I was seein’ Sergeant Samms. Look, Grace, there’s an army captain got ’is eye on yer, ever so ’andsome, a proper gent, an’ Sybil can arrange for yer to meet ’im an’ bring ’im to number 17, an’ I’ll see that room Number Four’s ready, unlocked with the key on the inside, easy as winkin’!’

  ‘But Iris and Audrey will see!’ said Grace, quite shocked. ‘And hear! They’ve seen an’ heard you!’

  Madge laughed. ‘Poor things, it gives ’em somethin’ to talk about. Now, then, shall I tell Sybil that ye’re on, so’s she can make arrangements with this ’ere captain, and I’ll let yer know what day, or rather night, an’ see that Number Four’s ready with a bottle o’ bubbly on the table. Yer don’t ’ave to ask for any money, he’ll pay Sybil before’and, an’ she’ll pass it on through me to you. What d’yer think, little Gracie?’

  ‘Oh, no, Madge, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I thought Mr Dean was so particular about us girls, accepting invitations to supper—’

  ‘Christ Almighty, don’t tell ’im nothin’! Mrs Moore’s in charge o’ room Number Four, an’ she lets the ol’ fool go on thinkin’ we’re all as untouched as nuns.’ Madge laughed heartily at Grace’s embarrassment. ‘Think o’ the Chris’muss presents ye’d be able to buy, an’ new clo’es an’ ’andbag for yeself!’

  Grace swallowed, and made herself look Madge in the eyes. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Madge, and I’m grateful, but wouldn’t that mean…some people would call it…I mean, isn’t it selling your body?’

  ‘Good grief, ’ark at you! If ye’re tryin’ to say “prostitute”, that’s a different thing altogether,’ replied Madge in mock horror. ‘Prostitutes are them women who line up in Piccadilly an’ Leicester Square, lookin’ to pick up a man, any sort o’ man, an’ give ’em a good spend. Dolly’s girls ’ave it all arranged before’and by Mrs Moore, and she sees that it’s all fair an’ above board. Now, if yer don’t want to meet this captain, I won’t try to persuade yer, just think about it, that’s all. C’mon, let’s go to Selfridges in Oxford Street, an’ see all the nice things yer could buy if yer ’ad a spare fiver or two.’

  Grace found herself being led to the various departments of the famous store, the counters full of gloves, scarves, brooches, belts and purses, and upstairs the dresses, blouses, skirts and petticoats – and the hats and shoes she would have loved to buy for herself. Madge spent extravagantly, and treated them both to scrambled eggs on toast in the restaurant, finishing with ice-cream. She made no attempt to try to change Grace’s mind, and was not at all put out by her friend’s rejection of a good offer. Give her time, she thought, just give her time.

  Tom Munday’s words went round and round in Eddie Cooper’s head, and after a while they took root and became a possibility. Should he speak to Mary? No, he must first sound out Sidney Goddard, and if he refused, Mary need never be told.

  So Eddie took the bull by the horns, as he later expressed it to Tom Munday, and went to Yeomans’ farm one cold December morning, at the time he knew Sidney would be at the piggery.

  ‘G’mornin’, Sidney!’

  ‘’Morning, Mr Cooper!’

  Eddie hesitated, bracing himself for what might be an acutely embarrassing exchange. There was no point in beating about the bush.

  ‘About my daughter Mary, Sidney – is she any happier these days?’

  Sidney stood up straight and pushed his cap back. ‘Yes, I think she’s looking a bit better now, Mr Cooper. I- I try to talk to her when we’re on our own in the kitchen, but that doesn’t happen very often.’

  This sounded encouraging, thought Eddie. ‘No I don’t s’pose it does,’ he said, ‘but tell me somethin’, Sidney, and I’ll never repeat it to another soul. Y’know that my Mary’s expectin’ in February?’

  ‘Y-yes, I do know that, Mr Cooper, and I’m very sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? Why, are you responsible?’ asked Eddie, knowing full well that Dick Yeomans was the father.

  Sidney flushed. ‘Of course not, Mr Cooper, it happened before I came to work here. I meant that I’m sorry she’s in such a…a situation, at the mercy of the Yeomanses.’

  ‘Ah, Sidney, I’m glad to hear you say that. S’pose it was in your power to help her, would you do so?’

  Sidney shifted his feet and looked self-conscious. ‘How exactly do you mean, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘By marryin’ her, Sidney. She’s not a bad girl, she’s just been unlucky. She’s a good cook and house cleaner, and would make any man a good wife. I’d help out with any expenses, and I’d pay the rent if you moved into that little white cottage by the Blackwater bridge. What d’you say?’

  Sidney was clearly taken aback, but not offended. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mr Cooper, it’s very sudden to make a decision about something as important as that. I-I’d need time.’

  ‘D’you like Mary?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I do, but I don’t know if she likes me, Mr Cooper. We’ve never spoken about anything like this.’

  ‘Then it’ll be up to her to accept or turn you down. Time’s gettin’ on for her, and if you agree to ask her before the week’s out, I’ll drop her a hint, so’s she’ll be prepared.’

  ‘But what about my job here?’ asked the bewildered Sidney, still unable to take in what was being put to him.

  ‘You could carry on with it. Blackwater Bridge isn’t far.’

  ‘B-but what about the Yeomanses?’

  ‘What about them? They can’t stop you marryin’ her, and her child will be a Goddard, and legitimate.’

  ‘And what about my parents?’ asked Sidney helplessly.

  ‘What have they got to do with it? You’re a grown man, aren’t you? Look here, Sidney, I’ll give you till the weekend. And the final decision will be Mary’s. If she says yes, I’m on your side, and you can count on me to help in any way I can.’

  There was a long pause, and Eddie was about to take his leave, but a change came over Sidney, who suddenly seemed to make up his mind. He stood up straight and tall, looking Eddie full in the face.

  ‘All right, Mr Cooper, I’ll ask her – and there’s no need for you to speak to her first, because I’d rather she didn’t know that we’ve talked about her. If Mary’s wil
ling to take me on, I’m prepared to marry her and look after her and the baby.’

  Eddie’s eyes were moist as he held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Sidney. You won’t regret it, I’m sure.’

  The minister at South Camp Methodist Church was not won over by the offer of money from the bride’s father. It was young Mr Goddard’s urgent need to marry the listless, pregnant girl that persuaded him to agree to a quick, quiet wedding just before Christmas, the news of which rapidly spread. The fury of the Yeomanses provoked a second wave of gossip in North Camp, and opinions about the match were divided: there were those who thought that Goddard was actually the father of the unborn child, and those who believed that Eddie had offered him his life savings to make it worth his while to take on Dick Yeomans’ child. Generally speaking, Sidney’s image was enhanced, especially when it became known – and the story lost nothing in the telling – that he and old Yeomans had had a stand-up row in the farmhouse kitchen that had almost come to fisticuffs.

  ‘Yeah, Tom, we got them Yeomanses over a barrel!’ chortled Eddie with satisfaction. ‘If they was to sack Sidney, he’d leave the farm, takin’ Mary with him as his wife, carryin’ the child who’ll be registered a Goddard when it’s born. Besides which, they can’t manage without Sidney now, he’s worked like a slave all hours, in all weathers, learnin’ to be a stockman to be relied on. Short sight ain’t a handicap when ye’re workin’ with cows and pigs, or sittin’ up behind them two great shire horses ploughin’ a field. Sidney’s been up early on dark mornin’s, freezin’ cold, to dig turnips and mangolds for winter feed, chilblains on his hands and feet…’

  ‘So, not such a booby after all,’ grinned Tom Munday slyly.