by Dominic Luke
‘I don’t want it. You have it.’
‘Well. . . .’ Daisy eyed the steamed pudding and custard. ‘It does seem a shame to waste it.’ Quickly she sat at the table and pulled the bowl towards her. ‘Ooh, miss, this is heaven! There’s nothing can beat Cook’s steamed pudding! Are you sure you don’t want some?’
Eliza shook her head and gave a heartfelt sigh. She was free to sigh now that the governess was out of the way, just as Daisy was free to sit and eat steamed pudding.
‘I don’t want pudding. I don’t know what I want, Daisy.’
Daisy looked at her shrewdly, licking her spoon. ‘It gets you like that sometimes, miss.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re all at sea. Like you don’t know what you’re looking for. Then, out the blue, you find that what you wanted was right under your nose the whole time.’
Something in Daisy’s words aroused Eliza’s interest. ‘Have you found something under your nose, Daisy?’ she asked curiously.
Daisy looked smug. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’ She stood up, wiping a blob of custard off her chin. ‘If you’re sure you’ve finished, miss, I’ll take these crocks down to the kitchen.’
‘We are rather diminished this year,’ said Mama as they sat down to Christmas luncheon, just the four of them: Eliza, Mama, Roderick and Kolya. It was mild and miserable outside, the sky grey, spots of rain on the window.
‘Is delicious food, Mrs Brannan,’ said Kolya. ‘I enjoy immensely. Is that correct word, immensely?’
Eliza looked sidelong at Kolya as she spread bread sauce over her slices of turkey. She had been rather wary of him these last few days. She had begun to wonder if she really knew him at all. Was it true that he was in love with Miss Halsted as Roderick had claimed? Surely he was too sensible for that! And Miss Halsted was so off-putting, very serious and self-sufficient, not lovable at all.
Pushing her Brussels sprouts from one side of the plate to the other, Eliza was reminded of last Easter, seeing Roderick kiss Miss Halsted in the hallway at 28 Essex Square. She had not expected that, either. She had thought that Roderick would scoff at something as soft and silly as love.
‘More plum pudding, Mr Antipov?’ said Mama. The dinner was drawing to a close. ‘I am so sorry,’ she added, ‘that you must leave us tomorrow. The house is beginning to feel rather empty.’
Love! How she hated love!
Eliza in the day room sat slumped in the chair by the window (her posture would have scandalized the governess), twisting a lock of hair round her finger. Love was a disease just like Miss Halsted’s cold. Those under its spell saw Miss Halsted as someone mysterious, alluring, desirable. Love made Kolya seem like a stranger. It drove Roderick to kiss Miss Halsted in the hallway at 28 Essex Square, to bully her in the billiard room here at Clifton. Was there any cure for love?
It was love, too, that had taken Dorothea away.
‘People can’t help falling in love,’ said Daisy. ‘It’s just one of those things.’ She paused, blew out her cheeks, began swinging her shoulders from side to side. Suddenly, as if it was bursting out of her, a smile wreathed her face and her eyes shone. She said in a breathless rush, ‘Oh, miss, you mustn’t breathe a word, but I’m stuck on Susie Hobson’s brother: I’ve fallen for Zack Hobson!’ She ended on a dramatic flourish as if speaking of some unspeakable crime.
‘Is it bad, then, to be in love with Zack Hobson?’
‘Terrible bad, miss! I don’t know what I’m to do! Those Hobsons are the ones everyone looks down on. They’re poor as poor. Their dad’s out of work as often as not. Their mum borrows bits and pieces all round the village – a pinch of tea or a screw of sugar – and she never pays it back. My dad would string me up if he knew. He’d rather die than have a daughter in company with a Hobson. But – oh – miss: Zack!’ She was all goo-eyed over him as if he was the last word in boys.
Even the nursery, it seemed, was not safe from the ravages of love.
Who was Zack Hobson? Eliza had a vague recollection of a boy a few years older than herself, a rather thin and scrawny boy with bare feet, a snotty nose and a tattered shirt: a bit like the boys she’d seen in Stepnall Street. But that had been a while ago. Perhaps Zack Hobson had changed since then. But could he really be so wonderful?
‘Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, miss.’
‘Of course I won’t, Daisy!’
‘You mustn’t even mention it to Susie, his sister: she’ll only go blabbing, if I know Susie.’ Daisy gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘She don’t know when she’s well off, that Susie Hobson. Nibs Carter worships the ground she walks on. I know he’s a bit of a grump and he’s ever so touchy, but nobody would ever say that a Carter weren’t good enough: nobody looks down on the Carters for all that they’re poor. But instead of counting her blessings, Susie’s holding out for something better. I don’t know who she thinks she is. Perhaps she’s waiting for the Prince of Wales to come calling.’ Daisy sniffed then sighed again. ‘Well, I must get on. The governess is back tomorrow and if this place isn’t spic-and-span she’ll go running to Mrs Bourne and then it’ll be who’d-have-thought-it.’
This reminder of the governess plunged Eliza into despair. So much for a happy New Year. The life of slavery would shortly resume with no end in sight. She’d be better off if 1913 was cancelled from the outset.
‘Miss Eliza! What do you think? You’ll never guess!’
Eliza struggled to sit up in bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Daisy had come bursting into her room at a ridiculous hour: it was barely light.
‘What is it, Daisy? Must you shout? I was having the nicest dream before you came stampeding in.’
‘Grumpy guts. But wait till you hear! This’ll put a smile on your face. She’s gone! She’s packed her bags and gone!’
‘Who’s gone? What are you talking about?’
‘The governess, miss: she’s gone!’
Eliza could scarcely believe her luck. She had never dared hope the day would come. She had expected the life of tyranny and oppression to go on forever. (It was barely February, the governess had been at Clifton less than six months; but it seemed like years.)
The governess had gone. Just why she’d gone was not clear. Everyone had a different theory.
‘She had a set-to with Mrs Bourne,’ said Daisy. ‘Bossy Bourne is the last person you want to pick a fight with. No one gets the better of her!’
‘The governess was making eyes at Mr Ordish,’ said Susie Hobson. ‘He was swooning from the shock of it. She had to be sacked for the sake of his health.’
‘She was caught filching the silver,’ said Sally Kirkham. ‘The police came and hauled her off to jail.’
‘I am not discussing it, Elizabeth,’ said Mama. ‘It has nothing to do with you.’
‘But she was my governess, she was—’
‘Please don’t shout! I have the most dreadful head this morning.’ Mama did indeed look unusually ruffled. She was sitting on the stool by her bureau in the parlour, rubbing her temples, her brow furrowed. ‘Why must people let one down? This couldn’t have come at a worse moment, when I’ve the christening today and now a funeral tomorrow.’
Eliza knew about the christening. It was Colonel Harding’s first grandson who was being christened: not a child of Charles (Charles Harding still wasn’t married. Some people said he never would be: no woman would put up with him) but of the younger son, Julian. Julian Harding had got married last year only a few months before Dorothea. Roderick called Julian ‘the housemaid’s son’, a reference to the local rumour that for his second wife the Colonel had chosen one of his own servants. Mama told Roderick not to be so silly: of course Colonel Harding wouldn’t marry a housemaid!
So that was the christening. What of the funeral?
‘It doesn’t concern you, Elizabeth,’ said Mama. ‘Now do please at least try to behave yourself over the next few days – if it’s not too much to ask.’
Dismissed from the parl
our, Eliza trailed back to the nursery, resentful. Nobody these days had any time for her. She was told nothing. She was ignored. She had always to stay at home and be good. But where did it ever get her?
Slowly climbing the stairs, she thought of Dorothea, who had believed in looking on the bright side. Was there a bright side in this situation? Well, the governess had gone: that was something. And Mama would be out most of today and tomorrow too.
Eliza’s spirits rose. She would have the run of the house. She would be able to do whatever she wanted. She could please herself for a change.
There was a lot to be said for looking on the bright side, it turned out.
Next morning, as soon as Mama had set off for the funeral, Eliza went downstairs in search of the newspaper which had been forbidden in the days of the tyranny. She felt most grown up sitting in the drawing room with The Times open on her lap. Dare she ring for a glass of milk and maybe a slice of cake?
But then she turned a page and the headlines there made her blood run cold. ANTARCTIC DISASTER – LOSS OF CAPTAIN SCOTT AND HIS PARTY – OVERWHELMED BY A BLIZZARD.
There had been no news of Captain Scott for ages and ages. Roderick had said that he must be dead. Eliza had refused to believe it. Now here it was in black and white: Captain Scott, so brave, so intrepid, killed by the snow.
She was still trying to take it in when, without warning, the door flew open and, with a jangle of keys and a forbidding frown, Mrs Bourne swept in. Roderick’s name for her – ‘the Dreadnought’ – was for good reason.
‘And just what are you doing in the drawing room, Miss Elizabeth?’
‘I was—’ Eliza pointed mutely to the terrible headlines. Surely even Mrs Bourne’s heart must be touched.
But no, the housekeeper was unimpressed. ‘Go back to the nursery where you belong. Go back at once. And leave the newspaper. I do like things to be kept in their proper places!’
Eliza obeyed.
Back in the day room she walked up and down and began to feel ashamed. Why be such a milksop? Why allow herself to be bossed around by the Dreadnought, a mere servant? She wished a blizzard would overwhelm Mrs Bourne and good riddance.
She leant against the bars on the window. There was no sign of any snow. There was no sign of anything. The world was shrouded in fog.
There was no bright side in a fog.
Daisy came running. ‘The mistress is back. You’re to go down, Miss Eliza, and have tea.’
‘Me? Have tea? But why?’
Daisy was in a fluster and no wonder: Mama hated to be kept waiting. ‘She has a gentleman with her,’ Daisy added as she searched for a clean frock in Eliza’s wardrobe.
‘A gentleman? What gentleman?’
‘The gentleman whose daughter has died: Mr Simcox.’
To sit in the same room as a man whose daughter had died: it made Eliza shudder to think of it? Death seemed to be stalking her today: first Captain Scott, now Mr Simcox’s daughter. She thought of death as a tall, grim man all in black lurking in the fog.
‘Daisy, I can’t go downstairs, I can’t, please don’t make me!’
‘What a daft ha’p’orth you are, miss! Mr Simcox is not a monster. Now do hold still and let me get the lugs out your hair.’
Wild ideas crowded into Eliza’s head as she made her way down the stairs. What if Mama wanted to offer her up as a replacement for the man’s dead daughter? Mama would only be too glad to get rid of her!
But when Eliza arrived at last in the drawing room she found there was nothing alarming or intimidating about Mr Simcox – just the opposite, in fact. Bowed, haggard, with a balding head and a straggly grey moustache, he looked insignificant and rather brittle. He was not a complete stranger. She had a vague idea she had seen him before. She’d certainly heard of him: Mr Bradley Simcox, a friend of Daddy’s. He’d worked for Daddy in Coventry. It had been just the two of them in the beginning when Daddy first set up his bicycle business. The bicycle business had grown apace in the years since then. Daddy in his will had left Mr Simcox shares in it (whatever shares were) and Mr Simcox was now general manager. But as she listened to Mama and Mr Simcox talking, Eliza came to understand that the bicycle business no longer made bicycles.
‘Such a shame,’ said Mama. ‘Albert was always rather partial to bicycles. They were his first success when he came to branch out on his own. Not that he didn’t do well with watches. But he always thought of that as his father’s affair, not his own. It was something he’d inherited; he hadn’t built it up himself. Albert liked to be his own man.’
Mama was in black today as was Mr Simcox. Black had always made Mama look cross in the days of her mourning after Daddy died. But she seemed different this afternoon, gentle almost, leading Mr Simcox in conversation. She was a match for this situation as for any other.
‘It is a shame, Mrs Brannan, about the bicycles: a real shame. But there’s no money in them any more: not in ordinary bicycles, anyway. It’s a different story with the motorized variety. They started off as a sideline but have become something of a money-spinner. However, we’ve passed the patents on to our sister company, the BFS: they are better placed for that sort of thing. We at the Crown Street works now only make motor components for the BFS and for other companies: demand is growing. That is why we have changed our name, from Brannan Bicycles to Brannan Engineering. It seemed the sensible thing to do.’
‘I am sure that Albert would have approved, Mr Simcox. He was nothing if not pragmatic.’
‘You’re quite right, Mrs Brannan. He was very pragmatic. Forward-thinking, too. He believed that invention and innovation were not only good for business but improved people’s lives, too. All the latest trends – standardization, batch production, conveyer belts and the like – would have interested him a great deal. He would have been asking himself how these techniques could be applied to the BFS factory at Allibone Road. Not that Allibone Road is behindhand. Mr Smith, of course, has always prized quality over quantity but he learnt a lot from Mr Brannan about moving with the times. He’s been keeping a close eye, I believe, on that new factory built in Manchester by Ford’s and the methods they are using there.’
Mr Smith, Eliza remembered, was the father of Young Stan and of Jeff, Stan’s brother, who was now chauffeur at Clifton. She wondered how Stan was getting on at the motor factory but shrank from asking, still rather in awe of Mr Simcox and the weight of his grief. Mr Simcox, loquacious one minute, would fall silent the next, staring at the carpet, lost in thought. But Mama nudged the conversation along; there were no awkward silences. Effortless, it seemed to Eliza: enviable, too. Mama could talk sensibly on any subject, always asked the right questions, whether the talk was about bicycles or motor cars or motor components or manufacturing techniques. Mention was made of motor racing, too. The BFS, it appeared, gained much public notice thanks to its competitions department headed by their neighbour Henry Fitzwilliam – the man who’d once wanted to marry Dorothea (was this true?).Henry was much involved in racing, whether on the track or in hill climbs. He was making quite a name for himself, Mr Simcox said.
Afternoon tea came to an end. Mr Simcox got to his feet. Mama pulled the cord.
‘You will want to rest before dinner, I expect, Mr Simcox. Ah, here is John. John will show you to your room.’ (John was the name Mama used for the footman Basford.)
Mr Simcox paused in the doorway, looked back, looked for the first time at Eliza. He seemed as shy of her as she was of him.
‘What a lovely girl you’ve got, Mrs Brannan. So quiet and polite. Reminds me of my Peggy at that age. A very studious girl, my Peggy. Devoted to her old dad. Everybody loved my Peggy. But there. She’s gone. She’s with her mother now, God rest ’em.’
He went out. Basford closed the door.
‘Such a tragic loss,’ sighed Mama after a pause. ‘She was only twenty-five.’
‘Is . . . is Mr Simcox staying with us, Mama?’
‘For a few days, yes. It is what your father would have wante
d. I expect you to be on your best behaviour, Elizabeth. Mr Simcox needs peace and quiet at this difficult time.’
Back in the nursery, Eliza returned to her place by the window. The fog had cleared a little, was tattered and shredded. Indistinct dark shapes had appeared along with the ghostly silhouettes of naked trees. But a thick mist still lay along the line of the canal and the horizon was veiled in a white pall.
Eliza found herself thinking of Daddy. He’d had a whole separate life in Coventry, a life that Mr Simcox and Mr Smith knew all about but which she had never given much thought to. He’d been a big man, her Daddy, a gruff man. She’d been frightened of him at times though he’d never been nasty or cruel. What would he thought of her as she was now? Would he have loved her the way Mr Simcox had loved his Peggy?
Staring into the swirling fog, she remembered the unkept promise to take her to the Crystal Palace; she remembered walking with him on occasion hand-in-hand in the gardens; she remembered once, long ago when she’d been very little, he’d lifted her up in the drawing room and sat her on top of the piano. He’d been happy that day, he’d been excited about something: the motors, perhaps? There had often been great excitement at Clifton in the early days of the motors, when Daddy was first building the business.
Eliza could not now recall what Daddy had said to her that day: had it been something along the lines of ‘What a wonderful family we are’ or ‘What wonderful times we shall have’? But she remembered clearly the timbre of his voice, the way his eyes had shone; she remembered his smile half-hidden by his greying, bushy moustache; she remembered his big strong hands on her bare arms, lifting her effortlessly. She had thought he would always be there. She had thought he would go on forever. Then, one day, out of the blue, his heart had stopped working.
Looking out at the world shrouded in fog, Eliza decided that next time she was in the village she would go to Daddy’s grave in the churchyard. She would go to his grave, she would visit him, she would not be afraid, she would never go out of her way to avoid him again.
