Consequences

by Nancy Carson

  ‘The bruise is neither here nor there. I’m telling you that in view of Stokes admitting everything I’m commencing divorce proceedings, based on your adultery, and I’m citing him as co-respondent.’

  ‘Well…something to look forward to at last,’ she goaded.

  Benjamin ignored her jibe. ‘When I recall how you have deceived me with your disgusting infidelity, and have lied to me about it all this time, I am flabbergasted at your gall. When I ponder how you and that twit Stokes sordidly brought a child into this world and you tried to pass it off as mine, it makes me feel physically sick. Did you really think you could get away with it? Did you really think I was that stupid? Well, you’ll pay the price, Aurelia. God alone knows where or how you will live, because I shan’t keep you. You’ll not get a penny from me. You and Stokes’s bastard can wallow in the gutter for all I care. Maybe the workhouse will take you in, but that’s your concern. Either way, I shan’t envy you.’

  ‘So what about Maude Atkins and your own bastard, Benjamin?’ Aurelia countered acidly. ‘Will she and her child likewise end up in the workhouse when you’ve had your fill of her? Because I suppose the poor soul is destined to become the new Mrs Sampson and live here, and end up as unloved as I have been in this vile mausoleum, while you gallivant off with some other beguiled and deluded young woman and father your next bastard.’

  ‘You have a very low opinion of me, Aurelia.’

  She rolled her eyes. Such a stupid, stupid man…‘Is it any wonder? Are you so dense that you can’t see why? Do you honestly believe you are such a wonderful catch?’

  ‘You seemed to think so when I saved you from the follies of your mad-brained father. You were grateful enough for marriage then. I have given you respectability, despite the fact that he shamed himself so—’

  ‘You hypocrite, Benjamin,’ she interrupted. ‘Can’t you see that you are exactly like my mad-brained father, whom you are so fond of disparaging? Can’t you see that what you’ve done in cavorting with our former nanny, under the same roof you share with your wife, is just as shameful as what he did with my aunt, Marigold’s mother? No, I don’t suppose you can, because you’re too stupid and too blind to see it. I don’t suppose for a moment that fathering a child with Maude Atkins is on a par with anything my father did, in your eyes.’

  ‘Listen, you harlot, I’ve kept you in fine clothes, fed you and provided a roof over your head. You’ve lived the life of a lady, wanting for nothing. Yet how do you repay me? You allow yourself to be seduced by that ne’er-do-well.’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite all right for you to be unfaithful, isn’t it? But not me.’

  ‘I am allowed to be unfaithful, Aurelia,’ he roared. ‘You, as my wife, are not. It’s that simple.’

  * * *

  Algie leaned his bicycle against the wall and went into the house, resigned to the inevitable chaos that his confession to Marigold would create. Clara, his mother, was in the kitchen preparing food.

  ‘My goodness, Algie, you look as if you’ve lost a sovereign and found a sixpence,’ she remarked on witnessing his sombre expression.

  ‘Maybe I have,’ he replied glumly. ‘Where’s Marigold?’

  ‘Out the back, fetching in the washing. It’s been a good drying day.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll go and find her.’

  In the back garden, beneath billowing sheets, he saw her dainty feet and black stockings protruding below her long skirt as she reached on tiptoe for the wooden pegs that attached the sheets to the washing line. He called her name. As she pulled back a sheet, as if peering behind a curtain, she saw him approach.

  ‘Hello, husband,’ she greeted with a warm smile, ‘it’s been a good drying day.’

  ‘Mother said.’

  ‘Our Rose has been a proper little madam all day, though.’

  He forced a smile.

  ‘Here, Algie, help me fold this sheet properly, save getting it creased. Sheets can be a devil to iron if they get too dry and ain’t folded proper, all smooth like. Are your hands clean?’

  He inspected them cursorily. ‘Yes.’

  She held out one edge of a sheet to him and he took it. Between them they stretched it taut and made the first fold, then another. Marigold took the long folded sheet, gathered it in cross-folds, and placed it in the wicker washing basket at her feet.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ she asked chirpily.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  She unpegged another sheet and offered him one end. ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘There’s something I have to talk to you about, Marigold.’

  She smiled enigmatically and he detected a twinkle in her eye. ‘Well, it can wait till I’ve got the washing in, I daresay.’

  ‘I daresay.’ He was glad of the delay and shrugged as they pulled on the sheet to make it taut before executing the first fold. When they had finished he took her hand and led her to the wooden bench at the top of the garden at the point furthest from the house, so as not to be overheard. They sat down, he turned to face her, conscience-stricken, and took her hands in his.

  ‘Before you say a word, Algie Stokes, I have something to tell you,’ she said, and it pained him to see how cheerful she was, and how soon his news would turn that cheerfulness into misery.

  ‘What?’ he asked, grimly.

  ‘Oh, just wait till I tell you.’ There was no mistaking the teasing frivolity in her eyes, the contentment.

  ‘So tell me,’ he demanded impatiently.

  ‘I’m having another baby. You’re going to be a dad again.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed, closing his eyes and facing the sky. He let go of her hands and stood up, bewildered by her news. ‘How? I mean, when?…I mean, how long have you known?’

  She giggled at his obvious perplexity. ‘Oh, Algie…Since before today, o’ course. Ain’t you pleased?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to for days and days. But you can never be sure early on…’ she shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up, then have to tell you I was wrong.’

  ‘So how far gone are you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve missed two months. So I reckon I might be nearly three months already.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he repeated. He sat down beside her again and leaned against the backrest. This was a twist he had not reckoned on.

  ‘Ain’t you pleased?’ she asked again, disappointed at what seemed to her his detachment. ‘I thought you’d be ever so pleased.’

  He laughed at the sad irony of this new, unanticipated development and threw his arms about her. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I am ever so pleased,’ he said, and smothered her with kisses. ‘Does Mother know?’

  Marigold shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t tell anybody afore I’d told you, you daft thing.’

  ‘So Aurelia doesn’t know either?’

  ‘Course she don’t know.’

  ‘Shall you tell her, or d’you want me to tell her?’

  ‘Why d’you think I’d want you to tell her?’ she asked. ‘No, I’ll tell her meself. She’ll be that pleased.’

  ‘Oh, she will,’ he remarked, the irony in his voice lost on Marigold.

  ‘I think she should be the baby’s godmother, don’t you?’

  ‘If you still think so…once you’ve had the baby, I mean.’

  ‘So what is it you want to talk to me about?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing really.’ How could he possibly mar the happiness of these precious moments by telling her his preposterous news? Besides, it might be better to keep quiet about it until he knew for certain that Benjamin had begun divorce proceedings. After all, it could conceivably have been a hollow threat.

  ‘It must have been something, Algie,’ she prompted.

  He shrugged, struggling to invent a plausible tale. ‘Oh…I’d been thinking about applying for a loan to buy a new stoving oven for the business. But it can wait. After your news, it can certainly wait.’

  She stood up and smil
ed sassily. She offered her hand and he took it, also rising from the seat. ‘Come on, help me carry the washing in,’ she said. ‘Then we can tell your mother the good news over tea.’

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  When Clarence Froggatt was a child, his father realised that his only son was blessed with an unusual combination of talents, namely an aptitude for mathematics and a fondness for drawing and designing things. As far as Dr Froggatt was concerned, these were not the relevant ingredients for a career as a physician like himself, but were entirely applicable for life as an architect. Thus, he encouraged his son to think along those lines from an early age. The lad should strive for it he believed, simply because he saw that it was attainable. By the time Clarence had wed Harriet Meese, he had passed all his examinations and was a fully qualified architect.

  Dr Froggatt had seen to it that his son received as good an education as it was possible to get, without it actually costing him good money on private schooling, for thrift was no stranger to generations of Froggatts. Yet parsimonious as his father had been, Nature had been decidedly lavish with the gifts she bestowed on Clarence. Besides his mathematical and artistic abilities, he was blessed with a handsome face and a fine physique, hinting at good health and greater than average physical strength. The only aspect of his looks that could have been improved was the occasional aloofness of his facial expression and a tendency to appear more serious than he actually was. Some people interpreted this as a sign of being morose, unduly solemn, miserable, lacking a sense of humour, some even as haughty. Yet when he actually smiled, these perceived characteristics disappeared and his face lit up.

  Clarence was also a realist, especially where women were concerned. His looks and demeanour had enticed many a lovely girl to fall for him, and he had taken advantage of what was on offer when the opportunities arose; his delicious liaison with Kate Stokes was still seldom far from his mind. He missed some aspects of Kate even now; her looks, her playfulness, her teasing, despite his affection for his bride.

  It was after he and Harriet had returned from honeymoon in Llandudno that they had called at the home in Holly Hall of his mother and father, who received them cordially in their parlour.

  ‘I have some news for you, Clarence, my boy, which I’d prefer to break to you privately.’ Dr Froggatt spoke solemnly, which put the happy couple on edge, as if some unwelcome announcement was about to shatter their contentment.

  Harriet glanced at Clarence with a look that questioned why she should not be party to the conversation, since they were now husband and wife. With a single glance and nod of his handsome head, however, she understood. He would tell all afterwards in any case.

  Dr Froggatt summoned the maid and asked her to provide tea for the ladies, and to convey a bottle of whisky and two glasses to him and Clarence in the surgery.

  As Mrs Froggatt and Harriet remained in the small parlour with its chintz curtains and ageing mid-nineteenth century furniture, Clarence followed his father into the surgery, where Dr Froggatt normally dealt with his patients. He closed the solid oak door behind them. Shelves of medical books, bottles, jars and other paraphernalia lined two walls of the surgery. A mahogany desk with a leather-bound top spanned the bay window to enjoy the benefit of natural light. It was strewn with papers and the assorted trappings and instruments of a general practitioner. The doctor took the chair that also lived in the bay behind the desk.

  The maid tapped on the door and delivered the whisky and glasses, which she placed deferentially before him. He took the bottle, opened the cork and waved her away unsmiling. As she shut the door behind her, he began to pour.

  ‘What’s this mysterious news then, Father?’ Clarence asked as he drew up a chair at the other side of the desk facing the window. He took the glass his father proffered, sipped the strong amber liquid and crossed his legs.

  ‘Your Uncle Septimus…’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He passed away while you were on your honeymoon. Quite suddenly.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ Clarence gasped, uncrossing his legs. He leaned forward in the chair in anticipation of hearing some detail. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it, Father.’

  ‘I didn’t think it appropriate to interrupt your conjugal frolics with the sad news.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Nothing you could have done anyway.’

  ‘So what was the cause of death?’ Clarence enquired at once, not wishing to dwell on the subject of conjugal frolics.

  ‘Blood clot – on the brain, or so I’m led to believe. As I’m not his personal physician, I can only go on what his own quack in Wolverhampton reported. Funeral’s on Monday. Eleven o’clock. St Peter’s church.’

  ‘I’ll be there, of course.’

  ‘Indeed, you should be, my son. We’ll travel there together. Train from Round Oak. I’d like somehow to make it plain to all those who attend that he was not one of my patients.’

  Clarence allowed himself a smile at the absurdity of his father’s professional vanity. ‘Naturally,’ he replied.

  Dr Froggatt took a slug of his whisky. ‘Can’t abide funerals myself. All that weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then the inevitable droning and all that religious claptrap. Generally made all the more dreary if the weather’s foul.’

  ‘Yes, all that grief on display,’ Clarence concurred.

  ‘There’s something else I’ve been intending to say to you, Clarence – and while I’ve got you here…I appreciate you are married at last, and to a jolly decent girl who was brought up in the fear and nurture of solid Christian values, but I hope you won’t go bothering your head about religion and all that tomfoolery, just because she does. I doubt if you’ll have time for it anyway.’

  Clarence was mildly bewildered at what seemed a strange change of tack from his father. ‘Strictly speaking, that’s Harriet’s domain,’ he replied in her defence. ‘As far as I’m concerned, she can have her head where religion’s concerned, if that’s what pleases her. Anyway, I daresay I’ll still accompany her to church of a Sunday.’

  ‘The thing is, women tend to enjoy that sort of thing – religion,’ the doctor went on. ‘Seems to bond ’em together, gives ’em something to cling to. But some folks sacrifice themselves in the name of religion…tying themselves in knots to qualify for a place in the next world.’ He shook his head in private exasperation and took another slurp. ‘Remember, my boy, the only world that’s important is the one we live in. So bear it in mind. People shouldn’t burden themselves unnecessarily with religious anxiety – they should cast off such burdens. And that’s precisely what you must do if you intend to get on in life.’

  ‘I certainly intend to do well, Father,’ Clarence agreed.

  ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. The other thing to avoid is too much romantic nonsense. I’ve heard it said many a time that love and religion are the chief blights of Bedlam. So do away with both, that’s my advice, otherwise they’ll drag you down.’

  ‘But I have to confess, Father, to being rather fond of my wife,’ Clarence responded, growing more bewildered.

  ‘Of course you are, my boy, of course you are. And rightly so. But hear me out…If there’s one thing softer than the things men do for religion, it’s what they’re capable of doing for love. It annoys me when I see a man putting a woman up on a pedestal and making a great fuss about her, when they’re all alike once you get past the colour of their hair and the structure of their faces. And even those things don’t matter once you’ve got used to them. And they certainly don’t matter in the dark.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Clarence replied dismissively, aware that Harriet’s face was nothing to get excited about.

  ‘Myself,’ the doctor went on, ‘I confess to once having a puerile fancy to land some handsome young filly with a bit of bright colour and bounce about her – wide eyes, red lips, rosy cheeks and all that pother. Yet if ever there was a washed-out, plain slip of a woman, it was the one I married – your mother. Oh, she’s nic
e enough in her way, but just between you and me, I never made her looks my first consideration. Yet she knows her place and she keeps to it, bless her. She’s always suited me down to the ground. I’ve never given a thought to the colour of her hair or the arrangement of her face since the day we were wed.’

  ‘It’s a strange thing for a father to admit to his son, though, wouldn’t you say, Father?’

  ‘We’re talking man to man here, boy. Men of the world, we two. Now look at me. I’ve never bothered my head about religion or romance. Nor did your poor, recently expired Uncle Septimus, my brother, and he’s left sixty thousand pounds if he’s left a penny. Nor shall I be that far behind him when my time comes. Now, you show me a religion that’ll bring in sixty thousand and I’ll get on my knees and pray with the rest of ’em. Likewise, show me a woman that’ll bring sixty thousand to the marriage bed and I’ll fall head over heels.’

  Clarence smiled.

  The doctor emptied his glass. ‘I’m telling you this, Son, because you are the sole beneficiary of your Uncle Septimus’s estate.’

  ‘Me?’ Clarence gasped. ‘The sole beneficiary? Good God.’ Incredulous, he felt himself go very hot at the prospect. ‘I’ve never given it a thought. All that money?’

  ‘Aye, all that money. His last will and testament names you as the sole beneficiary, and I’m an executor. Remember, he had no truck with women or religion. He never married, so he fathered no offspring. You’ll come in for the lot.’

  ‘Good God.’ Clarence murmured again. ‘I never realised he was that well off.’

  ‘Well, there you are, there you are. That’s what property can do for you. You’re an architect, my boy. Get into land, get into property. You’re ideally placed. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t double or treble the amount in short order.’

  ‘I’ll do my very best, Father. Count on it…Jesus!’

  * * *

  No sooner had Clarence and Harriet closed the front door of his father’s house behind them than Harriet made her complaint. They had begun the walk to the house they had rented, and were on the main road to Brierley Hill.