by Jess Foley
Lydia felt herself nod, heard herself say, ‘Yes.’
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Anderson said. ‘He went away from us for years, joining the army and going abroad, and we lived in dread that something might happen to him out there in the Transvaal. However, he came back to us safely, only so recently, and resigned his commission, and I don’t mind telling you that we were so relieved – even more so when he declared his intention of settling down and working in the family business. It was what we had always wanted.’ She gave a slow nod. ‘Always. Now, with my husband’s death, he’s been thrown into the deep end, so to speak, and he’s coping remarkably well. He’s had to grow up, you might say, in a matter of days, and I’ve no doubt that it will prove the making of him. I’m very proud of him, Miss Halley, and my husband was proud of him too.’
A little silence in the room, while from beyond the windows came the faint sound of birds singing. On first receiving Mrs Anderson’s letter Lydia had wondered why she had been summoned, but she had had her thoughts – thoughts which had in turn bred her fears. Now, the more Mrs Anderson said, the more Lydia felt her fears being realised. The sensation filled her with dread.
Mrs Anderson seemed to look closely at Lydia again, as if considering the form of her words whilst studying her. Then she said at last, ‘I did know about you, Miss Halley. I knew about you before your letter came for my son.’
Now Lydia found a voice, of sorts. ‘Did – did Guy speak of me, ma’am?’ she asked, with a little, sudden rush of gladness. If Guy had actually spoken to his mother of her, then. . .
But the next moment that little glimmer of burgeoning hope was vanquished.
‘No, he did not,’ Mrs Anderson said. ‘In that he didn’t volunteer anything, I mean. His father found out about you when he was lying very ill in the hospital, and asked a few questions to gain more information, and then a little later spoke to me on the matter. Naturally. He was quite exercised by it. After my husband’s death I spoke of it to Guy. My husband had been deeply concerned about it all, and so was I. So – that’s how I heard about you, and I learned enough to know the sort of thing that had happened – how the two of you had met in the first place, and then how you met the second time, and of your subsequent meetings over the week before he set off for Florence.’ In silence for a moment she studied Lydia. ‘You’re a very attractive young woman,’ she said, ‘very pretty, and you’re very presentable too. No one could deny that. I can see any young man, not least my son, being attracted to you, but it goes deeper than that. Good relationships, good – associations are not founded merely on pretty looks. I’m sure you’re aware of that yourself.’ She paused for a second, then continued, ‘The fact of it is, I don’t want my son distracted, Miss Halley. It really is as simple as that. He has too much promise in his life for me to allow that to happen. My husband and I had hopes for him, and I still maintain those hopes on my own. It is what my husband would wish. We want the best for him, the very best. Nothing less than that will do.’ She paused again. ‘Do you understand that?’
Things were becoming clearer now by the moment. Lydia managed to say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and fell silent again.
‘It’s nothing against you personally, you must understand. I would be saying this to any young woman whom he had chanced to meet and had known for only a week or so. Oh, my dear,’ she frowned with a faint expression of sympathy, ‘a week is nothing. I can make a guess that you grew to be rather – close in those few days, but all said and done it’s no time at all, and it certainly shouldn’t be seen as a basis to build a life upon.’
Lydia thought, But I love him. I knew it in less than a week, but she could say nothing. And how did Guy feel? He had spoken warm words to her as they lay beside the water, but they had been spoken in the heat of the moment and such words at such times could be notoriously treacherous, each one the betrayal of truth and happiness.
Mrs Anderson held up the letter briefly before her again. Without attempting to read it, she touched it with her other hand and said, ‘You wrote in your letter of a matter of some urgency on which you wished to see my son.’ She lowered her gaze now, as if suddenly finding the direct eye contact a little discomfiting. ‘Now I’m not going to ask you what that matter of urgency was, or is, if it still exists,’ she said. ‘You didn’t go into it in your letter, and I’ve no intention of doing so either.’ She compressed her lips, then said, slightly defiantly, raising her eyes to Lydia’s, ‘It’s your business, and I don’t want to make it mine.’ And she added firmly, ‘Or my son’s.’
She knows, Lydia thought. I don’t need to tell her. She knows. She felt a terrible deep shame sweep over her, and wanted to get up and run from the room. Inside her gloves her palms felt damp.
‘My son is a handsome young man,’ Mrs Anderson said after a moment, ‘and I’m well aware of that. Anyone would be. Also, he’s from a good background with a family history that goes back a long way. One day – probably while he’s still relatively young – he’ll inherit everything. To put it crudely, Miss Halley, he’s a good catch. I must be honest with you even further, and say that when I first heard about you I formed an opinion about you, and that opinion was not the most flattering.’
At this Lydia lifted her hands to her mouth, giving a little gasp. At once Mrs Anderson reached out to her a staying hand.
‘Let me finish,’ the woman said. ‘As I say, the opinion I formed was not the most flattering. I had a picture of a girl that was not you. I saw a young woman who was little more than an opportunist. In short, someone who, in the parlance, was on the lookout for the main chance. I was determined to deal harshly with you.’ She laid the letter down on the table beside the spectacles. ‘But I think perhaps I was wrong. Oh, I have no doubt that you see everything on the credit side where my son is concerned – any girl would be blind not to – but at the same time I don’t see you as a schemer. I might be wrong, but I don’t. I see you as a girl who might have made a mistake, but perhaps nothing more than that.’ She clasped her hands before her. ‘Some day, my son will meet the right young woman and settle down – but my dear, this is not you. You are not the one for him, and he is not the one for you. I don’t want to sound cruel; I said this to you before, but we have to be honest or we’ll get nowhere. My son liked you, and was attracted to you, but he does not love you, and you must not entertain for one moment the idea that he does. Believe me, I know what I’m speaking of. He has certain duties now, and he’s aware of them. He’s aware of the course his life is to take. As I said to you just now, my husband and I had hopes for our son, and I continue to entertain, most jealously, those hopes. I hope in time he will make a good marriage, but it’s too early for him to think about that. That is for the future. In the meantime he has other important things to occupy his mind and his time.’ She gave a slight, sympathetic shake of her head. ‘And you have no part in his plans, I’m afraid.’ She paused. ‘You mean well, I’m sure, but you are not the girl for my son.’
She got up and started across the room. Lydia watched as she sat down at a small writing table, at the same time putting her spectacles on her nose again. Then, turning back to Lydia, the woman went on, ‘If you have made a mistake, my dear, then you will have to find some way of dealing with it.’
She knew, Lydia thought. The woman, Mrs Anderson, had divined the true situation. However, she had no more time to think on the matter, for the older woman had gone on, saying:
‘Believe me, Miss Halley, in time you will meet the right young man for you. You will, indeed. I’m sure of it. Perhaps he’s there now, one of the clerks at the department store; perhaps he’s some young man in your home village; but make no mistake, he is out there somewhere, and as I said, you’re a very attractive young woman, and you will find someone, someone dear to you. The right one.’
Lydia listened to it all and knew that her hopes had all gone for nothing. She felt tears stinging at her eyes, and a tightening in her throat. Had Guy told his parents that he did not love her? He must
have done. Obviously he had not been serious about the relationship – but what was that relationship anyway? It had lasted for no more than a week. It had been a wonderful week, but it had been only a week none the less. She realised now in that moment that it had probably meant very little to Guy – regardless of his passion and his warm words, and she was probably never going to see him again. Taking a breath she blurted out, making one last attempt:
‘Mrs Anderson, one reason I wanted to see Guy is –’
‘No, Miss Halley.’ Mrs Anderson’s hand came up, palm out, halting any possible outpouring of whatever Lydia might have to say. ‘I don’t want to know. I told you before, it’s not my business, and I don’t want to make it my business. Please, say no more.’
The words, the gesture, had stopped Lydia in her tracks, and she closed her mouth and looked down at her hands. She sat there for a moment longer, then picked up her bag and got to her feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to say, her voice breaking slightly, ‘I must go.’
‘Wait a moment.’
Raising her glance, Lydia saw that Mrs Anderson was writing something at the table. She watched as the woman finished writing, blotted the paper, then rose from her chair and came towards her.
‘Here. . . Take this. Put it in your bag.’
Lydia took the paper from her and dumbly looked at it. It was a cheque made out in the sum of a hundred pounds.
Lydia looked at the woman in bewilderment. ‘What – what is this for?’
‘I want you to have it,’ Mrs Anderson said. ‘If it comes in useful, then that is well and good, and if you have no immediate use for it, then save it for when you do.’
‘But –’ Lydia began to speak but could not go on. What was happening? She did not understand.
‘Please, take it.’
With her words the woman moved to the fireplace and gave a tug on the bell pull. Moments later the maid was there.
‘Florrie,’ Mrs Anderson said, ‘Miss Halley is just leaving, if you’d kindly show her out.’ She turned then to Lydia. ‘Thank you, Miss Halley. Thank you for coming to see me today.’
Her mind spinning, Lydia gave a nod. The next moment the maid was turning in the doorway, prompting Lydia to move. Seconds later Lydia was in the hall and the maid was opening the front door to usher her out.
Chapter Thirteen
The rain held off until just after Lydia got back to the house on Little Marsh Street. Then it came, falling heavily, and she sat in her room watching as it drenched the leaves of the cherry tree in the back yard and bounced up off the windowsill. Overhead the clouds were low and smoky grey, their ragged edges drifting as they rode the sky. When it was time she went downstairs to the dining room to eat her supper. To her relief – for she did not feel like conversation – Mrs Obdermann made only two brief appearances. She was busy at her sewing machine, she said to Lydia, and did not have the time to linger. Lydia did not find the food particularly appetising, added to which she had little inclination to eat. Nevertheless, to forestall any comment from Mrs Obdermann, she ate as much as she could.
Afterwards, she went back up to her room and there sat and tried to read. She would have liked to go for a walk, but, although the rain had stopped, the skies still looking threatening, and she was loath to take the chance. Putting her book aside, she pulled her bag towards her and brought out the cheque that Mrs Anderson had given her. She sat back, looking at it and feeling her heart pounding, partly because of the memory of the visit to the woman that afternoon, and partly because of the horror that the piece of paper induced in her.
How could Mrs Anderson have done such a thing? Did she think that Lydia’s affection could be bought off like that? Is that what the money was for – to recompense her for her hurt, and to assuage any feelings of betrayal? If so, it was a waste, and only made things worse. How, Lydia asked herself, could she have accepted the cheque? How could she have taken it from Mrs Anderson and, as she was bidden, put it into her bag?
But Mrs Anderson had known. Surely she had divined the situation – Lydia’s condition. It had not been spoken of – indeed, Mrs Anderson had made it clear that she did not want to know of it – but Lydia was sure she knew of it, nevertheless. In which case, could the gift of the money have to do with that? There was no doubt that babies cost money to bring up, so perhaps the cheque had been for the purpose of easing the coming financial burden. If it comes in useful, then that is well and good, and if you have no immediate use for it, then save it for when you do.
She looked at Mrs Anderson’s signature, the clear, though slightly crabbed cursive text in the writing of Lydia’s name, and the amount to be paid, one hundred pounds.
After a while she got up and put the cheque in the top drawer of the little white-painted chest that stood beneath the window. She must decide what to do with it – whether to tear it up or to send it back – for she would not use it, that much she knew.
With the daylight fading, she lit the gas lamps and lay back on the bed, but she was unable to rest. The room was full of ghosts tonight. After a time, she tried, for diversion, to read, and took her book up again, but for all its passions and promises it failed to touch any chord within her, and in the end she put it aside.
She closed her eyes. Tomorrow Ryllis would be coming to Redbury and they would meet for tea. Ryllis had written asking if they could meet on the Sunday afternoon. Lydia had written back saying that she would meet the coach from Barford at three o’clock, and that they could have some tea and spend some time together. It would be so good to see her again, she thought. In her mind she planned that, if she had the courage, she would tell Ryllis of her predicament.
The next morning, soon after rising, she felt sick again. She knelt on the floor, retching over her chamber pot, and trying her best to keep the sounds within her body, dreading that Mrs Obdermann, busy down below, might hear and guess at the reason.
Later, over a light breakfast, Mrs Obdermann attended and sat down with a cup of tea to keep Lydia company before going off to morning service, chatting to her about different matters: the new incumbent at the church, the weather, the government and the rising prices of just about everything. She asked if Lydia would like to accompany her, but Lydia made an excuse of having things to do before she went off to meet her sister.
Soon after two o’clock Lydia changed her clothes and then set out for the station. The day was fine. The rain of the day before had cleared the air, and the August sky was bright. She got there in plenty of time, and had a wait of some ten minutes before the coach from Barford came trundling in. Soon after the vehicle had drawn to a halt Ryllis was stepping down, and Lydia saw with relief that she was alone. She had feared that Tom might accompany her.
After the sisters had embraced, Lydia said, ‘Oh, Ryllis, I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you. I thought we could go and have a cup of tea, and then go back to my lodgings. We can have a rest there and a good chat until it’s time for you to go back on the coach.
Ryllis said in reply, ‘Oh, Lyddy, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got to get back to Barford. I can only stay a little while. I’ve got to catch the next coach back at quarter-to-four.’
‘But you only just got here.’
‘I know, I know.’ Ryllis looked around her as the travellers milled about. ‘Can we go and sit down somewhere for a while. I want to talk to you.’
There was a teashop close to the railway station entrance, and together they made their way there and found a vacant table near a window. A young maid came over to them and they ordered cups of tea. When the girl had gone away, Ryllis gave a sigh and said, ‘Oh, Lyddy, I’m sorry to do this to you, making a dashing visit like this, but something’s happened, and I haven’t got any choice.’
‘What’s happened? Something with your work, with Mr and Mrs Lucas?’
‘No, not them. Nothing changes there, I’m sorry to say. No. . .’ She drew a breath, compressed her lips for a moment, then added, ‘It’s Tom.’
There
was such melancholy in Ryllis’s tone and expression. ‘Oh, dear,’ Lydia said, and then: ‘What’s the matter? He’s not ill, is he?’
‘No, he’s not ill. He’s very well, as a matter of fact.’ Ryllis paused, put her hands up, fingers to her chin, then said, ‘Oh, Lyddy, I’m so unhappy.’
‘Tell me,’ Lydia said. ‘What has he done?’
‘I was supposed to meet him last week,’ Ryllis replied, ‘but – he didn’t turn up. I waited and waited for him by the old barn on the Kippis Road, but he never appeared.’ Tears welled and she took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. ‘Oh, I don’t mind telling you I was in a real old state that evening. I couldn’t think what had happened to him. I imagined all kinds of things.’ She sniffed and dabbed at her nose. ‘Anyway, I wrote to him, telling him that I’d waited for almost two hours, and asked whether he was ill or something. I told him I was really worried, and I asked him to tell me if we could meet. I heard back from him just yesterday. He wrote saying he would meet me this evening at six. So, Lyddy, I’ve got to go. I haven’t got any choice.’
‘Of course you must go,’ Lydia said.
‘I knew you’d understand. I got his letter too late to let you know, so I couldn’t write and cancel our meeting here today.’
