Pool of St. Branok

by Philippa Carr

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s rather a complicated relationship but it exists.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes. I came to visit once before.”

  “And they’ve put you onto the bowls, have they?”

  “They all seemed so busy, and these things had to be brought up here.”

  “Oh yes, for the morning soup. I’ll give you a hand.”

  He took off his coat and set to work.

  When we went into the kitchen several of them called, “Hello, Tim. Running late.”

  “I’m helping with the bowls,” he said.

  “Good.”

  Soon we had brought up all the bowls. He said: “Many hands make light work.”

  “It seems so. Are you a frequent helper?”

  “I come quite often. I think Frances and Peterkin are doing a wonderful job here.”

  “Yes, I have always heard so.”

  “And now you have come to see for yourself.”

  Someone was calling. “Tim. Tim. Strong man wanted for the cauldrons.”

  “Right,” he answered. “Coming.” And to me: “Excuse me.”

  That was a strange morning. I stood behind the table with several others, Timothy Ransome among them—ladling out soup. It was a sobering exercise … to see those eager hands stretched out for the bowl, to watch the ravenous manner in which they devoured the soup. They were ragged, unkempt and hungry. It made me both sad and angry. It was the children who touched me most. I thought of our own children … of Pedrek who sometimes had had to be coaxed to eat. And the fisherman caught another little fish to feed his family and he popped it into the mouth of the youngest, and then the second youngest … and so on until he had eaten it all.

  At last it was over. The morning’s supplies were diminished and everyone had had their share.

  Timothy Ransome said to me: “You mustn’t get too upset. At least we are trying to do something about it here. It’s a grueling experience at first.”

  “I suppose you have done it many times.”

  “Oh yes. … There are many things that you will find upsetting here … things you didn’t dream of.”

  “I know I have to be prepared.”

  “After this, there is a little refreshment for us. Humble fare. Bread and cheese and a glass of cider.”

  “It sounds good to me.”

  “I’ll show you. If we are lucky we can help ourselves and have half an hour’s respite.”

  I saw Frances then. She came hurrying towards us. “Hello, Angelet, lovely to see you. Sorry I was so busy when you came. What a morning! I thought we shouldn’t be ready in time for the hungry hordes. Tim … you’re looking after Angelet. Showing her the ropes. Good.” She grinned at me. “You soon get used to it. In the evenings we have a supper when we all get together and talk about the day. That is when you ought to be here. I’ll see you later. I’m having a little trouble with Fanny …”

  “Can I do something?” asked Timothy.

  “No. I’ve got someone on it. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that child. We’ll see. I’ll be with you later, Angelet … if I can.”

  Then she was off again.

  Timothy Ransome said: “Let’s see about that food.”

  It was a strange experience sitting in a small room with a man whom I had never met before, eating hot crusty bread and cheese with a tankard of cider beside me.

  “I have to admit I know something about you,” he told me. “I heard about your husband. It was in the papers at the time. That’s when I learned you were related to Peterkin. I am so sorry. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  “It is over now,” I said.

  “Your husband was a hero.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He died saving another man’s life.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  I nodded.

  “Forgive me,” he went on. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken of it. Do you intend to work here?”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t. I have a daughter. She is four years old. I am here today because she is with friends.”

  He looked disappointed.

  “But I shall come again,” I said, “when I have the opportunity.”

  “It can be very distressing,” he said. “It’s so strange and upsetting at first. One gets over that. One realizes that there is no virtue in being upset and shaking one’s head in pity and doing nothing about it. This place grows on you. Frances is one of the most wonderful women I have ever met. She never sits down and groans about inequality … she does something practical. Of course, everyone could not do it, I know. Frances has her private income … so has Peterkin. They are a good team. Theirs is a good marriage … perfect I should say … except that they have no children. Yet if they had I suppose this work would suffer. On the whole I would say theirs is one of the few perfect unions.”

  “You admire them very much, don’t you?”

  “I do. Everyone must. … Once they get used to Frances’ rather stringent manner they must know that beneath it lies the proverbial heart of gold.”

  The very mention of the word “gold” always took me back to Golden Creek … Ben washing his hands in the stream and discovering the presence of the precious metal. But for that he might be free now.

  I said: “I think she is wonderful, too.”

  “You’ll come again. You’ll get caught up in it. I come two or three days during the week. I’m what Frances calls one of her casual laborers. What she likes is full-timers like the Honorable Jessica. You know her?”

  “I met her when I arrived.”

  “Oh yes, Jessica is the right-hand woman. She’s dedicated, and we should all like to be but for commitments.”

  “Have you many commitments?”

  “An estate to run. Fortunately close to London … which makes it easy for me. It is just outside Hampton. I have a son and daughter. So you see I cannot give myself entirely to the cause.”

  “I understand.”

  “Your daughter must be a great compensation.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I find that with Alec and Fiona. I lost my wife, you see.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “It was some four years ago. A riding accident. It was so sudden. She was there in the morning … and by night time she was gone.”

  “What a terrible tragedy!”

  “Well, these things happen all the time. It is just that one doesn’t expect them to happen to oneself!”

  “How old are the children?”

  “Alec is ten, Fiona is eight.”

  “So they remember.”

  He nodded sadly. Then he smiled. “Well, this is gloomy talk. Would you like some more cider? I am sure I could find some.”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  When we took back our plates and tankards and washed them in the kitchen we saw Frances.

  “There’s trouble,” she said. “Billings is up to his tricks again.” She turned to me. “We get cases like this all the time. But this kind makes me mad. It’s where young people are concerned.”

  “Fanny again?” asked Timothy Ransome.

  “Yes. I don’t know what we can do. I’d like to get Fanny away … but there’s the mother. She doesn’t want to leave him.” She wrinkled her brows. “Billings drinks. He’s not so bad when he’s not drinking, but he can’t resist the gin palaces. You know what they say: ‘Drunk for a penny and dead drunk for tuppence.’ Well, he’s dead drunk most of the time. Emily Billings is a silly woman. She should leave him. But she won’t. He’s the second husband and seems to have her completely under his spell. Fanny was the daughter of the first marriage,” she explained to me. “He was a builder and fell from the scaffolding. There was no compensation. That’s one of the things we’re working on. In the meantime … Emily married Billings and her troubles really started.”

  “There are so many similar cases,” said Timothy Ransome.

  “True. As far as Emily’s concerned I’d say,
All right, if you won’t leave him take the consequences. It’s the child … Fanny. She’s a bright little thing. I could do something for her. But I can’t take a girl of fifteen away from her home. Emily would stand by him in a court of law. She’d deny anything. He could almost kill her and she’d say she had fallen down the stairs. But it is Fanny. From what I hear there is danger of sexual abuse. Emily knows it and tries to hide it. It was something Fanny said that gave me the clue. I just can’t put it on one side. I have to do something because of Fanny.”

  “It’s a problem,” agreed Timothy Ransome. “If there is anything I can do …”

  “I’ll call on you, never fear. Angelet, you have been thrown in at the deep end, as they say. If it hadn’t been for all this blowing up this morning, I could have shown you round properly.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I want to see how everything works. I’m getting a real insight.”

  “The carriage is coming for you at four, I believe.”

  “Yes, they insisted.”

  “Quite right, too. You’d never get a cab here.”

  “Had I known I would have taken you home,” said Timothy Ransome.

  Frances answered for me. “Another time, Tim. I feel sure Angelet will come again.”

  “I shall,” I said. “Perhaps on Friday if Rebecca goes to Morwenna.”

  Timothy Ransome said: “And on Friday I shall be here. I’ll see that you are returned safely to your home.”

  Frances beamed on us both.

  “Very well. I shall see you on Friday. I promise I shall find plenty for you to do.”

  I had been going to Frances’ Mission twice a week—on Wednesdays and Fridays. Frances was delighted and I always found plenty to do. I learned things about other people’s lives which were so different from my own; I was appalled, shocked and at the same time exhilarated because I felt I was doing something worthwhile.

  I was becoming very friendly with Tim Ransome, who also appeared on Wednesdays and Fridays. The carriage would take me there and he would bring me home.

  Aunt Amaryllis said how delighted she was that I was helping Frances and Peterkin. Frances had told her all about it and how useful I was making myself.

  “It’s such good work,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Uncle Peter says it is just what you are needing. He gives a lot of money to the Mission.”

  I nodded, remembering Frances’ comments that he made sure that his gifts were noted, but that she was grateful for them all the same.

  I heard from the servants that Ben had called on one or two occasions. “He seemed most put out, Madam, that you were not at home.”

  Frances made a point of sending Timothy and me on errands of mercy. She would not let me go out alone and he was always my escort. We took clothes and food to the sick and needy, and I became fairly familiar with the neighborhood. We would be sent to shop in the markets for the stores needed in the Mission and this I greatly enjoyed. The stalls would be piled up with merchandise of all descriptions and the noisy costermongers would shout their wares in audacious cockney … often using the rhyming slang which was quite unintelligible to me without Timothy’s translation.

  It was natural that our friendship grew quickly in such circumstances.

  I knew him for a man who had never really recovered from the loss of his wife; he was fond of his children but they could not compensate him completely. He was fortunate he told me: his elder sister was unmarried and devoted to him and the children; she lived in his country house and looked after his home.

  “I should be lost without her,” he said. “And the children are very fond of her.”

  Frances must have told Amaryllis of my friendship with Timothy and as a result he was asked to dine at the house in the square.

  This he did on one or two occasions and it was clear that they liked him.

  Grace was a guest on one occasion. She said what a charming man he was, and smiled significantly. It was the first indication that it might seem that there was something serious and special about our relationship.

  I had seen Ben once or twice—usually when others were present. There had been few opportunities of speaking together alone. I did not seek them, but I believe he did.

  He said to me once: “I hear that you are devoting yourself to good works.”

  “You mean the Mission.”

  “Yes. They tell me you attend regularly.”

  “I like to feel I am doing something.”

  “I wish I could see you sometime.”

  We were at a dinner party at Matthew’s and Helena’s and the men had just rejoined us after dinner. It was just a snatched conversation.

  I did not answer. I looked across the room to where Lizzie was sitting trying to make conversation with the middle-aged gentleman seated beside her; and the effort was making her miserable. Grace was there, talking brightly to a young man. She looked over and saw us, and in a few moments she was making her way towards us.

  She talked brightly to Ben of the constituency to which he had been elected as candidate. I was surprised how well informed she was.

  I took the opportunity of slipping away.

  There were a great many dinner parties—either at the house in the square or Matthew’s and Helena’s house.

  Helena said, “There is a feverish expectancy in the air. I call it the electoral disease.”

  “Do you really think there is going to be an election soon?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I can see the signs. Disraeli can’t hold out. He’ll have to go to the country.”

  “And then?”

  “Who can say? We’re hoping he’ll get back. But, of course, Ben has other views.”

  “It is strange to have such divergence in a family.”

  “Oh, it is all very friendly. It is, you know, in the House. It has often struck me that members of the same party are more venomous towards each other than to those of the opposition.”

  “I suppose that is because they are reaching for the same prize. With the other side … well, they are not rivals in the same way.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, it is rather exciting.”

  “Yes, if it doesn’t get too serious.”

  She was right about the electoral fever.

  It was October. Cool winds were blowing across the parks and the ground was carpeted with red and bronze leaves. Excitement was in the air and people were saying that Disraeli’s ministry could not carry on as they were. They must go to the country.

  I was often at the house in the square. Ben was there, too, so we saw each other frequently … but never alone. Timothy was often asked. Frances and Peterkin came rarely. They pleaded too much work.

  I found the conversation stimulating.

  There were discussions between Uncle Peter and Ben which I thought must be worthy of the House itself—Uncle Peter supporting Disraeli and Ben, Gladstone. The rest of us joined in but those two were the main speakers.

  “You’ll have to get busy down at Manorleigh, Ben,” said Uncle Peter. “How is it going?”

  “Very well indeed.”

  “You think you’re going to manage it?”

  “I know I’m going to manage it.”

  “Voters are unpredictable creatures, Ben. You’re going to find it hard to convince them that Gladstone’s a better bet than Disraeli.”

  “I happen to think otherwise and I shall persuade my constituents to do the same.”

  Grace addressed Uncle Peter. “I think, Mr. Lansdon, that the voters of Manorleigh are beginning to like their new candidate.”

  She looked at Ben with an almost proprietorial air.

  “So you have inspected the territory, have you, Grace?” said Aunt Amaryllis.

  “Oh yes. I went down with Ben and Lizzie last week-end. Lizzie and I went to some shops and talked to them, didn’t we, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie mumbled that they had.

  “It was so exciting. I think we made some impression.”

  “That’s w
hat gets the voters,” commented Uncle Peter. “Never mind the policies. Just show them that you are a good family man, your wife beside you, and they’ll put their crosses by your name.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” said Grace. “Lizzie is going to be a great help.”

  “I … I … Grace helped me,” said Lizzie.

  “Oh, come, Lizzie, you did your part.”

  They talked about the chances of either side but I rather thought Uncle Peter was of the opinion that it would be a victory for the Liberals—which he was certainly not hoping for. But I saw him glance often at Ben with something like pride and amusement.

  After dinner I had a word with Uncle Peter.

  “I find all this parliamentary talk very interesting,” I told him.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “Do you really want the Conservatives to win?”

  “My dear Angelet, I’m a staunch supporter of the Party.”

  “But there is Ben.”

  He sighed. “Oh, he’s set himself on the other side of the fence.”

  “Do you think he’ll get in?”

  “Of course he’ll get in. They won’t be able to resist him. I wish …”

  I wanted to hear what he wished. But he said: “She’s right, you know … Grace. It’s the happily married man they like. Helena’s always been an asset to Matthew … and then of course her brother marrying Frances and that Mission. Good stuff.”

  “It’s good for a lot of people as well as Matthew, Uncle Peter.”

  “Oh yes. You’re one of them now, aren’t you? Nice fellow … that Timothy Ransome. Seems steady … and comfortably off.”

  “Have you been investigating?”

  “Naturally I investigate all friends of my family.”

  “Uncle Peter, you are incorrigible.”

  “Yes, I am. Always was and always will be. Never mind. Put up with me, will you, my dear?”

  I smiled at him. “Willingly,” I said.

  It was about a week later when Fanny came into our lives.

  Timothy and I had done our usual stint at the soup counter; the empty bowls and cauldrons had been taken back to the kitchen; everyone seemed to be intent on something or other. We were in the little room next to that where the soup was dispensed, and we were talking, as we usually did, about certain cases which had struck us as particularly sad or interesting, and a little about ourselves, when we heard the door being opened. We paused to listen. Then we heard stealthy footsteps.