Born to Trouble

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘I thought you might come tonight, Seth.’ She spoke softly, her breath a cloud of white as she stood on the doorstep. ‘Stupid I know, you might not even know where we are, but somehow I think you do. I wish you’d come. I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, you’re my brother and I love you. Much more than you know.’

  She hugged herself, wrapping her arms round her waist as she shivered. A couple of streets away there was a sudden burst of sound, someone calling and another voice answering, and loud laughter borne on the night air.

  The beginning of a new year. A snowflake landed in her eye and she blinked before turning and shutting the door. Walking back into the kitchen, she looked at the row of bread tins proving in front of the range. The dough had risen nicely, and bending down she popped the first batch of bread into the oven and then checked the meat pies in the roasting oven.

  She couldn’t let this fail. Sinking down on one of the hardbacked chairs, she gazed into the light of the oil lamp in the middle of the table. She was dipping into what remained of the money Seth had given them each week to pay the rent and buy supplies, and although she wasn’t losing money in the shop she still wasn’t making any – and they couldn’t carry on like that for much longer.

  The flickering light was hypnotic; she felt her eyes begin to close and stood up sharply. She was tired, so tired – but she still had two or three hours’ work in front of her before she could go to bed. And she didn’t mind the hard work, she really didn’t, but if only she could see some encouragement . . .

  Fetching the meat pies out of the oven she put the next trayfuls in and then straightened, stretching her aching back.

  She had to believe. She nodded to the thought. Believe this had been the right thing to do, that it wasn’t a mistake. Believe she could make a better life for James and Patrick, for all three of them. And her little band of regulars was growing, albeit slowly, and everyone said her food was the best they’d tasted. Mind, they probably would say that to her face, she reasoned in the next moment. They might be saying something quite different out of earshot.

  Enough. Again she nodded and then said the word out loud: ‘Enough.’ If she didn’t believe in herself, then for sure no one else would. Word was spreading. Only the other day a small group of workers from the candle factory had come in, saying how one of their number had recommended her. It wouldn’t take too many incidents like that before she’d be making a go of things.

  When Pearl did her accounts at the end of the week, she had to add them up twice before she believed what her eyes were telling her. Five shillings’ profit! All right, admittedly it wouldn’t even cover the rent for the week, but five shillings was five shillings nonetheless.

  The next week it was just over one pound. The week after that, it doubled.

  In March, Pearl felt the shop was doing well enough to justify the employment of an assistant. She hired a very capable widowwoman who was struggling to make ends meet. Nessie Ramshaw proved to be a blessing in all sorts of ways. Not only did she free Pearl up to concentrate on the cooking, but this motherly soul with a heart of gold also had a tongue that could cut the most awkward customer down to size; she was tailor-made for working in the front of the shop.

  James and Patrick soon adored the stalwart little woman, a feeling which Nessie fully reciprocated. Nessie’s only child, a son, had died with the fever when he was eight, and it was soon clear to Pearl that her young brothers filled a heart-shaped hole in Nessie’s life.

  It was Nessie who prompted Pearl to go to the bank and see the manager with a view to taking out a mortgage. Shortly after this, towards the end of that year, Pearl put in an offer of eighty pounds for the premises through the good Mr Mallard. When the owner demanded ninety, Pearl didn’t quibble. She knew if Ma Potts’s cousin took it upon herself to pay them a visit and observed how she’d improved their living quarters and the shop itself, and how prosperous it was becoming, she’d ask more.

  Pearl took out a mortgage for half of the amount; the other half she could afford to pay outright. When everything was done and dusted and she was officially a woman of property, she and Nessie and the lads went for a slap-up meal at the Grand Hotel to celebrate. They virtually tiptoed into the hotel feeling completely out of their depth in the impressive surroundings, but once they were seated at a table in the fine dining room – lit by the modern phenomenon of electricity – Pearl began to enjoy herself. They ordered their meal from the embossed menu and when the first course came, Pearl relaxed back in her seat.

  This wouldn’t be the last time they’d dine here, she vowed to herself, watching her brothers’ faces as they stared at the smartly dressed waiters gliding about, a white cloth draped over one arm. She was going to rise in the world and take James and Patrick with her. Christopher’s family had treated her as though she was something distasteful they’d brought in on the bottom of their shoes; she would never allow anyone to speak to her again in that fashion. And if she had to work her fingers to the bone to achieve what she wanted, so be it. It was a man’s world – look how the poor Suffragettes were being treated – but already women in Finland had won a real taste of political power when they’d secured seats in the Finnish Parliament, and a few years ago no one would have thought that possible. So why not more women in all realms of society, including business? The bank manager had been faintly patronising when he’d agreed her mortgage facility; one day – and not in the far distant future either – she’d repay that and buy another shop, more than one . . .

  ‘This soup’s not a patch on yours, lass,’ Nessie murmured in her ear. ‘An’ can you hear that man a couple of tables away? He might look like the gentry but he’s got a mouth on him as big as the pithead.’

  Pearl grinned. Nessie wasn’t in awe of any establishment or person, and she was so glad the two of them were firm friends. She had never had a real friend of her own before; Freda had been kind to her, but Byron’s sister’s confidantes had been among her own kind, which was understandable. In the last months she had found she could talk to Nessie about almost anything. Her friend knew all about her life with the Romanies, and about Byron and Christopher, all her hopes and fears for the future and her poverty-stricken childhood. The only thing Pearl hadn’t revealed was Seth’s part in providing the wherewithal for the shop premises. As far as Nessie was concerned, Seth and the others were in prison and she’d last seen them as a child. She had explained away her means of setting up the shop by saying she’d had a windfall from a relative – which was true in a way – and, Nessie being Nessie, the little woman hadn’t pressed her further.

  Their meal was most enjoyable but Pearl sensed that the boys were somewhat uncomfortable in the opulent surroundings. On the way home they stopped at the Old Market; the carousel was there at the top and it being a Saturday night there was boxing and men playing accordions, as well as a stall where you had to get footballs through holes. Pearl gave James and Patrick sixpence each and she and Nessie watched them have fun in the more familiar surroundings. The carousel was a penny a ride for five minutes, and the lads had two rides each before trying their luck at a couple of games stalls. They finished up at the bottom end at the very large sweet stall, buying a bag of bullets and a liquorice shoelace each, along with some nuts and raisins for a ha’penny per bag from a man with a wooden barrel.

  Tired but happy, they walked Nessie home to her lodgings in Northumberland Place before continuing on to Zion Street. It was a wet night and the rings of blue light around the gas lamps shone on the cobblestones, turning them blue too. When Pearl opened the door and ushered the boys upstairs to start getting ready for bed, she stood for a moment in the dark shop, counting her blessings and reflecting how, in a mere twelve months, their lives had been transformed. She had much to be thankful for. And if she cried for the moon occasionally, and the feel of a pair of strong arms holding her tight and a handsome face topped with corn-coloured hair close to hers, only she knew.

  Chapter 20

 
‘What the hell are you on about, boy? Who said we sent the chit off with a flea in her ear?’

  ‘Don’t bother to lie, Father. I know.’ Christopher stood facing his parents and Nathaniel, his eyes blazing. ‘You had her brought here and threatened her with all sorts of repercussions even before Mother and I left for Europe, and when she came back—’

  ‘Came back?’ Clarissa interrupted. Turning to her husband, she said, ‘You didn’t tell me she came back.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘She came back and was told I’d gone away.’ Christopher came further into the drawing room. ‘On your orders. All the staff were told to say the same.’

  ‘So it’s one of the staff who’s been filling your ears with tittle-tattle?’

  ‘No, it’s not one of the staff.’ Christopher could say this in all honesty. When Tilly the kitchenmaid had waylaid him in the stables that morning to tell him some very interesting facts, she’d also mentioned that she and one of the grooms were running off to get married. The butler had forbidden it, she’d added, since liaisons between members of staff were not allowed, but they loved each other, and the groom in question had already got a good job down South through his brother. They were leaving within the hour but she’d had something on her conscience for over twelve months and she couldn’t go without telling him. Christopher had listened to what the girl had to say and his blood had begun to boil.

  ‘Then who was it?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Suffice to say I know this person was telling the truth, which means . . .’ he looked straight at his brother now, ‘you lied to me.’

  ‘I lied to you?’ Nathaniel reared up as though he had been stung. He and his father had recently arrived home and had been enjoying a pre-dinner sherry when Christopher had walked in. He felt sorry for his brother. Since Chris had decided not to return to Oxford he’d taken over the responsibility for the farm and had been spending a lot of time with Tollett, which must be wearing for anyone, but Chris’s refusal to buck up and get over the gypsy wench had begun to annoy him. ‘When did I lie to you?’

  ‘When you pretended to help me find her. You never intended for us to get together, did you? It must have been a great relief when you found out she had drowned.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Oh, I have been stupid – I see that – but not now. Now I’m not stupid, Nat. Now I understand what drove Pearl to kill herself.’

  ‘You don’t know she killed herself.’

  ‘I know she went out walking in the dead of night and ended up drowned. That’s enough.’

  ‘It could have been an accident – that old crone herself seemed to think so. The river was in flood, she said so.’

  ‘Accident or no, your actions,’ he included his parents in the sweep of his head, ‘killed her as surely as if you’d held her under the water yourself. We loved each other—’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Oswald’s patience, tenuous at the best of times, was being sorely tried. ‘She was a gypsy, a common vagabond. All her kind are thieves and harlots—’

  ‘One more word and I’ll forget you’re my father and strike you down where you stand.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Clarissa was white-faced but regal as she stood up and joined her husband in his favourite place in front of the fire. ‘Your father is right, Christopher. The match could never have taken place, you must see that? And look what a brush with those people has left you with. You still have difficulty with your left arm and tire easily.’

  ‘I do not tire easily, I tire of life in this house! Of the shallowness and emptiness of it all. The only time I feel alive is when I’m with Wilbert.’

  ‘Wilbert?’ Clarissa’s smooth brow wrinkled.

  ‘He means Tollett, the farm manager.’ Nathaniel had joined his parents and the three of them faced the angry young man in front of them as one united force.

  ‘The farm manager?’ Clarissa’s expression suggested there was an unpleasant smell under her nose. ‘I trust you aren’t making the mistake of getting too familiar with a servant, Christopher.’

  Christopher stared at them. He had known for some time that this moment would come. Either that or he would go insane, because there was no way he could continue living under his father’s roof and retain his sanity. He could imagine what they had put Pearl through when she’d been brought to the house, how they had made her feel, but in spite of that she had loved him enough to come back a second time to try to see him. Such a flood of hate for the three people in front of him surged into his breast that if he had had a pistol in his hand he didn’t like to think what he would have done. And Nat, for Nat to betray him like this . . .

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he said flatly, ‘so you won’t have to worry about Wilbert Tollett or anything else connected with me.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving?’ Oswald’s lip curled. ‘If you think you’re going to go off gallivanting, think again. You’ve had it too easy, m’lad. That’s your trouble.’

  Christopher looked into his father’s hard little eyes. ‘You’re probably right.’

  He turned away, only to be swung round by Nathaniel’s hand on his arm. ‘Wait, Chris. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘I care, of course I care – you’re my brother!’

  Shaking off Nathaniel’s hand, Christopher stared into the face which was so like his own. He had always seen his brother as an ally against their parents, someone who was more like him under the skin than their mother and father realised. He had also been conscious of being under Nathaniel’s worldlywise wing, but his brother’s protective-ness had never irked him because it was given with love. Or so he’d thought. Now he wasn’t so sure. ‘I have my allowance that Great-Aunt Estelle left me – I’ll survive.’

  ‘Your allowance?’ Oswald said contemptuously. ‘That wouldn’t keep you in boot leather.’

  ‘Then that will be my problem, not yours.’

  ‘This has gone far enough.’ Clarissa moderated her voice. Like Nathaniel, she had seen what was in Christopher’s eyes. ‘Let’s have no more talk of leaving, Christopher. What we and your brother did, we did for the best. You must believe that.’

  ‘The best for whom, Mother? Certainly not Pearl or myself; I fancy we came way down on the list of priorities. Anyway, it’s of no matter now. I’ve never been a hellraiser and my account has accrued to a tidy sum in the bank, more than enough for me to purchase my own farm or smallholding somewhere.’

  ‘What?’ Now he really had his mother’s attention. ‘You aren’t seriously considering demeaning yourself in such a fashion! You are just saying this to spite me, aren’t you? To punish me.’

  ‘I’m quite serious, Mother.’ The dream of the little bookshop had died with Pearl. He found he didn’t want to mix with people these days, but animals were different. They asked for nothing but to be treated well. In the last months, unbeknown to his parents, he had got his hands dirty working with Wilbert on the farm and it was only on those occasions he had found a measure of peace. It had been then this idea had begun to grow. He had no interest in being a gentleman farmer, someone who had umpteen employees and a manager to run things. He wanted – he needed – to work on the land and be able to breathe God’s clean air, to be tired enough at night to sleep.

  ‘I forbid it.’ Clarissa’s face had turned an ugly shade of red. ‘Do you hear me, Christopher? I forbid it. I won’t have you turn us into a laughing stock.’

  ‘If you do this, you know you’ll be cut off without a penny from me?’ Oswald said grimly. ‘Nathaniel will get the lot.’

  ‘I don’t want anything from you, Father. Or you, Mother.’ Christopher’s voice was calm. ‘And Nat deserves his inheritance.’

  Clarissa was stretching upwards, the poise that was a part of her gone. ‘You ungrateful little cur. I won’t let you do this, I won’t!’ She stamped her foot, an expression on her countenance that could only be termed hate. ‘I’ll never
forgive you if you leave now, Christopher. I mean it. From this moment it will be as if I only have one son. Do you want that?’

  Christopher’s eyes moved to each face in turn. There arose in him a feeling of aloneness such as he’d never experienced in his life before, even though he had always felt alone within this family. But this was deep, devastating. It was the severing of blood ties. As he held his brother’s eyes it was Nathaniel who glanced away first, the action a declaration of where his loyalty lay. But then he had always known his brother danced to their father’s tune, hadn’t he? None of this should have come as a surprise.

  ‘Well?’ Clarissa glared at him. ‘Are you going to be sensible so we can discuss this in a civilised manner?’

  ‘Goodbye, Mother.’ Christopher turned and walked out of the drawing room and up the winding staircase to his suite of rooms. Packing a bag with his personal effects and a few clothes, he came downstairs again and paused for a moment in the hall. He could hear the low hum of voices from the drawing room. He stood looking around him. He would never set foot in this house again. He had been born here and had never known another home, and yet he didn’t feel a thing for it beyond a wish to be gone.

  Leaving the house, he made his way to the stables. He was taking Jet, since he wouldn’t put it past his father to have the horse put down if he left him here. His mother talked of spite, but Christopher had never met anyone as spiteful as Oswald when he was provoked.

  He had just mounted the animal and was about to canter out of the yard when Nathaniel appeared. ‘Don’t go like this, Chris,’ he implored. ‘Stay and talk things out. They’ll be reasonable, I promise you.’

  ‘They don’t know the meaning of the word and you know it. Anyway, I’ve had enough – of them, this house, the life we’re expected to lead. Hell, the banality of it.’