It was Elizabeth’s pious hope that there would be no more. Frank’s creative urges appeared not to have been affected by his injuries in the war, which was a pity really. Elizabeth would have preferred that they had gone, and his wits and eyesight had remained so that he could have got a good job, and maybe left her alone. Also one child was so much easier to cope with than three. If only one knew how to stop them coming. Maybe she should ask her mother, except that it was always such a difficult subject to talk about, even to kith and kin.
Elizabeth finished her washing, emptied the tub down the sink, slapped Mary’s hand, wiped the baby’s permanently dripping nose and carried her basket of damp clothes into the garden. It was a cold, blustery winter’s day and they wouldn’t dry, but it was better than having them hanging damp all over the house. Mary, still grizzling, still hanging on to her skirt, had followed her mother into the garden, but little Betsy had settled down to sleep. In a while Elizabeth would put her in her pram to go to the shops. Sometimes she saw a friend and it was a nice way of getting out of the house which, these days, seemed permanently filled with gloom.
Sometimes she thought that really to give in and go and live near her mother would be the best thing. Certainly they would have to do that if the brewery wanted the house back. Elizabeth was a determined, stubborn sort of person who had always nursed an ambition to be something different than what she was – better, grander.
When she was in her teens she had worked as a milkmaid on Sadlers’ farm where Carson Woodville had also worked. She had rather fancied Carson and knew he quite fancied her; but she had played hard to get, thinking this was the way to trap him. However, she left it too late. Her parents found out about it from her sister Jenny, who was always a jealous, snoopy sort of person, always prying into other people’s business, and promptly moved her away to work as a chambermaid at the Crown Hotel in Blandford, where she’d met Frank Sprogett who used to deliver beer at the back door. As well as being an engaging chap Frank Sprogett had seemed a way of getting out of a life she detested, running after wealthy, selfish women like, for instance, the present Lady Woodville whose maid she had briefly been when she first arrived back in Blandford from America.
What wouldn’t she give to exchange that for the life of drudgery, servitude and misery she now led?
Elizabeth went back into the house, Mary still whinging, still clinging to her skirt. At least the baby remained asleep in her crib and Elizabeth wished she could leave her there and creep out into the town. How nice it would be to be able to leave the children with Frank and have an hour or two to herself; but he couldn’t be trusted to keep an eye even on his own flesh and blood.
In the old days when he was normal, when she had first loved him, Frank Sprogett was one of the nicest, least selfish of men. Now he had completely withdrawn into himself and seemed to care for no one else.
Elizabeth climbed the stairs to the bedroom and stood in the doorway contemptuously regarding her supine spouse. He had several days’ growth of beard, he was abnormally thin and his eyes were sunken in his withered cheeks. He was only thirty and he looked fifty, more. You couldn’t help feeling pity for him at the same time as you despised him, because it just seemed as though he’d let himself go, hadn’t made an effort, hadn’t even tried. A kinder woman might have made more of an effort to understand the nature of her husband’s condition and the terrible experiences that had brought it about, but Elizabeth had an innate streak of selfishness which had been fostered by the way she had been brought up, never quite like her siblings, but as someone apart. Besides, she felt terribly let down and betrayed; all the hopes of her wedding day completely dashed. It didn’t matter that the dreams of thousands of other women had been similarly destroyed. Like her natural mother, Elizabeth had a tendency to think only of herself.
The doctor had tried to explain that mental illness was just as real as physical illness, only it didn’t show. But it was still difficult not to believe, in one’s heart of hearts, that Frank wasn’t really making an effort.
“Frank,” she said sharply and he half sat up in bed.
“What is it?” he croaked wiping his bleary eyes. “Wassermatter?”
“I’m going out to do a bit of shopping,” she said, taking her hat out of the wardrobe and bending down at the dressing table so that she could see in the mirror to fit it. “Do you think you’re capable of looking after the baby?” She glanced back at him witheringly across her shoulder.
Frank didn’t reply but sank back on the bed again his eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Of course you’re not,” she cried, securing her hat firmly on her head with a sharp pin. Then she straightened up and turned to stare at him, hands on her hips. “You’re good for nothing that’s what you are, Frank Sprogett.”
“Can’t help it, Bet,” Frank said in that whining tone she so hated. “Can’t seem to help it.”
“Course you can, if you tried,” she said contemptuously getting her coat out of the wardrobe and shrugging it on, struggling to do up the buttons in the front. Elizabeth was a good-looking woman, fair-haired, blue-eyed with strong features. In her youth she had been fine boned, almost fragile, but now the years of childbearing had given her a rather plump, matronly figure, big breasted. In addition she was worn out with looking after Frank for the last four years and producing and caring for three young children, and she looked older than her twenty-nine years.
“Wouldn’t trust you anyway,” she retorted, going to the door where she stood and glared at him. “Can’t look after your own children. If you ask me it’s a pity we had them and, what is more,” she leaned towards him and raised her voice, “there ain’t going to be no more! Do you understand that Frank?”
For answer he pulled the bedclothes over his head and disappeared under them, possibly because he didn’t dare tell her that sex was one of the few pleasures, perhaps the only pleasure, he had left.
Downstairs the baby was awake and gurgling. Elizabeth got her out of her crib and strapped her in her pram. Mary had stopped grizzling at the prospect of an outing and as her mother got her into her coat and did up the buttons she even managed a smile.
“That’s better!” Elizabeth grunted, wiping her daughter’s runny nose – all the children had perpetually runny noses these days – and was about to put a woolly cap on her head when there was a tap at the door.
“Blast!” she said getting up and glancing at the clock. If she didn’t hurry it would soon be dinner time and the kids would start grizzling again.
She opened the door and stood looking impatiently at the man who stood there diffidently, carrying a briefcase. Dressed in a dark grey overcoat, a bowler hat on his head, Elizabeth’s first thought was that he was someone from the brewery.
“What do you want?” she asked rudely half closing the door in his face.
“Mrs Sprogett?” The man politely removed his hat.
“Yes.”
“I wonder, Mrs Sprogett,” the man tentatively put a foot across the threshold as though to prevent her slamming the door, “if I may come in?”
“You may not!” Elizabeth said firmly banging the door against his foot.
The man winced.
“If you’re from the brewery it’s not convenient ...”
“Oh, I’m not from the brewery, madam.” The man carefully, gingerly withdrew his foot. “I am a solicitor and, I hasten to say, that I am here only with good news. That is I have to tell you something that will be to your advantage. Now do you think I might be allowed in?”
Elizabeth continued to look at the man, her face dark with suspicion, but opened the door a fraction wider. “How do I know you’re a solicitor?”
The man put a hand in an inner pocket and produced a card which he handed to Elizabeth.
“Graham Temple, Mrs Sprogett, of Pearson, Wilde and Brickell, Solicitors of Blandford. You’ve probably heard of us.
“Well,” Elizabeth stood grudgingly aside, “you’d better come in, but I war
n you my husband is upstairs ...”
“You need have no fears on that account, madam,” Mr Temple said frostily. “I assure you I shan’t detain you a moment longer than is necessary.” Then, once inside the door, “Would you like Mr Sprogett to be in on this meeting, madam?” As he spoke he produced a document from his well-worn briefcase. “It concerns a legacy, you see.” Though clearly ill at ease after his reception, he looked up with a rather false smile. “I have the pleasure to tell you, Mrs Sprogett, that you are a beneficiary under the will of the late Sir Guy Woodville.”
“Sir Guy Woodville!” Elizabeth sank on to a chair while Mary, mouth agape, went and stood by her side, clutching her mother’s hand, staring wide-eyed at the stranger.
“It is not very much, I hasten to say.” Mr Temple, having observed the humble nature of the dwelling, didn’t want to raise her hopes too high.
“And is my husband a beneficiary too?”
“No, Mrs Sprogett.”
“Then I don’t see any need for him to be here. Proceed with what you have to say, Mr Temple. I cannot believe that Sir Guy would leave me anything. I hardly knew him.”
“Nevertheless he did.” Mr Temple began to read from the document in a sonorous tone.
“To Elizabeth Sprogett (née Yewell) the sum of one hundred pounds and a diamond and sapphire ring that belonged to my late mother.”
“One hundred pounds!” Elizabeth gasped, rapturously clasping her hands together and immediately beginning to think what such a large sum of money would buy: new clothes for the children, a new dress and hat for her, perhaps a new coat ... Even then there would be some to spare. Suddenly her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why should he leave this money to me?”
“I have no idea, Mrs Sprogett. Nevertheless he did and I have a cheque drawn out in your favour with me this very minute.” Once more he reached into his inside pocket and, producing a cheque, handed it to Elizabeth who gazed at it unbelievingly.
“And can I just go and cash this?” she asked taking it from him.
“Well you have to ... you don’t have a bank account, Mrs Sprogett?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sure someone would cash it for you, a tradesman perhaps.”
“I don’t want any Tom, Dick or Harry to know about this. People gossip.”
“Naturally,” Mr Temple nodded understandingly. “Then I am quite sure that if you would care to call into our offices in the Market Place they would gladly provide you with cash, in exchange for the cheque endorsed in the name of my firm. Everything will be explained to you,” he added noting a frown on Elizabeth’s brow. Then, delving into his briefcase, he withdrew a small box which he handed to her.
“I think you will find this a very fine piece of jewellery, Mrs Sprogett. Worth more, I believe, than a hundred pounds.”
“Well I never!” Elizabeth, face flushed with excitement and disbelief, opened the small velvet covered box and gazed at the jewel inside. It was indeed very fine, a large central sapphire surrounded by a double tier of small diamonds.
“I believe the band is platinum,” Mr Temple explained, looking over her shoulder, “that is, even more valuable than gold.”
“Well I never ...” Elizabeth exclaimed again and tried to squeeze it on her finger, but Guy’s mother’s hand must have been smaller than hers and it didn’t fit.
“You could have it enlarged,” Mr Temple said encouragingly. “I believe it was the late Lady Woodville’s engagement ring from Sir Guy’s father, Sir Matthew Woodville, so it is of great sentimental value.”
“But why me?”
“I have no idea, madam,” Mr Temple said as patiently as he could, doubtless echoing the sentiment that had passed through his own mind at the bizarre nature of the bequest. “Maybe your mother or father would know. Was your father not once in the employment of Sir Guy?”
“But that was many, many years ago. My mother and father have worked for Sir Guy’s sister, Mrs Heering, for over thirty years.”
“Then maybe she or your mother will be able to help you.” Mr Temple was now anxious to get away and his voice had a trace of impatience as he headed for the door. “She is the one to ask.”
Paris in the spring of 1920 was like every other European capital struggling to recover from the aftermath of war. The Germans had never reached the city but it had reverberated to the sounds of Big Bertha, the 420 mm mortar, the ‘secret weapon’, of the mighty German army pounding away on the outskirts.
Paris had seen the Peace Conference of 1919, and its famous hotels had spruced themselves up for the occasion.
The Grand Hotel occupied a splendid site on the Rue Scribe near the Paris opera, a square courtyard leading into a sumptuously painted salle des fêtes.
It seemed fitting to complete their European tour, during which they had stayed in many fine hotels, at one of the most luxurious. There had been times when Agnes thought she would indeed prefer to live on the Continent, especially, if she had the opportunity, the Riviera. There they had stayed at the Riviera Palace in Menton and the Palace Regina in Nice, where a wing with a private lift had been specially reserved for Queen Victoria who had regularly stayed there. They had been guests at the Grand Hotel du Lac in Lucerne, the Amstel in Amsterdam and the Imperial in Vienna, which had previously been the town palace of one of the Dukes of Wurttemberg.
They had dined in the best restaurants, danced in the smartest clubs, taken tea in the finest cafés, carefully sidestepped the ruins and avoided battle-scarred places altogether. The north of France was given a complete miss and so was Germany, the Baltic states, most of Holland, Austria and, of course, poor little Belgium.
But if you avoided the beggars on the streets, and the vacuous gazes of blind ex-soldiers selling matches, it was possible to forget there had ever been a war so quickly did Europe settle down to try and put its house in order. There was food in plenty in the grand hotels even though shops were bare and at home sugar, meat, butter and other essentials were still rationed.
They travelled by train or hired car; they travelled in luxury, and by the time they reached Paris they were loath to go home again.
Owen was an entertaining companion. He knew his way round, how to handle people and money. He was an adequate lover but that sort of thing had never meant very much to Agnes except when she was young and in love with Guy Woodville, who used to visit her secretly at the country home of Lord and Lady Mount, which gave the adventure added spice.
The bloom faded when Guy left her pregnant and alone. She had the humiliation of being sent away from the Mount home like some errant serving girl, banished to Weymouth, Guy neither seeming to know or care. When her baby was a few weeks old Agnes had taken to her heels and set out on an adventure, in the course of which she was to change her lifestyle and way of life many, many times.
Agnes had made other discoveries about Owen Wentworth during the months they’d been together. He was a gambler, a drinker, possibly not altogether honest about money but certainly not a thief, at least she didn’t think so. But above all he was a rough diamond, an adventurer, rather like herself, with a veneer of polish that was easily rubbed off if he was thwarted or annoyed. In short, Owen and Agnes recognised each other; like for like.
She attributed his rough edges to the fact that he had been brought up abroad and lacked the refinement of an English public school education. He had gone to school in India and even though he told her it was a public school run by Englishmen for the benefit of expatriates and the sons of wealthy Indians, somehow it was not quite the same thing. In his holidays he had run wild with the natives. His mother had died when he was young so he lacked the civilising influence of female nurture. He had no brothers or sisters. His father had been a lonely rather severe man who beat him, and a drinker too. There not even the slightest proof that the title ‘Sir’ had been legitimately acquired.
Agnes gave Owen an edited version of her life story which included the lie she had put about in Wenham when she returned
in 1912, that she was the widow of an American railroad millionaire. So firmly was this fiction anchored in Agnes’s mind that she almost believed it and had managed almost entirely to forget the truth, which was that she had been the owner of several successful brothels and real estate in the heady climate of New Orleans in the expansionist years of America before the war. Reading in the papers of the death of Sir Guy Woodville’s wife she sold up, came home and, much sooner than she thought she would, persuaded him to fall head over heels in love with her all over again and marry her.
Agnes looked up from her reverie, aware that Owen was gazing at her over the rim of his brandy glass.
She gave a fleeting smile and raised her eyes towards him.
“Here’s a toast, Agnes.”
“To what?”
“To our future.”
“Oh!” She glanced quickly down at the table aware of the strains of the orchestra playing quietly in the background, the smooth passage of waiters between tables, trays held high above their shoulders.
“We do have a future, don’t we, Agnes?”
“I hope so.” She looked tremulously up at him. “But I should hate to live in India, Owen.”
“Oh there is no question of going back to India.” He reached over and put a hand on hers. “That is all over and done with.”
“I wasn’t sure. Have you sold your estate there?”
“How do you think I financed this trip, my dear?” He smilingly put his head on one side. Her heart gave a little jolt. It was true the trip must have cost a small fortune. It was like the honeymoon before the wedding. Was that, in fact, what Owen had had in mind?
“More brandy, monsieur?” the waiter intervened, hovering by his side. Owen shook his head and looked across at Agnes.
“Would you like a stroll, my dear? I think it’s warm enough.”
Agnes nodded, drained her glass and stood up as the waiter drew back her chair. She made her way towards the entrance to the dining room and then she turned to wait for Owen, who was having a word with the waiter and putting some coins into his palm.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 7
