You'll Never See Me Again

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘You should nip down to the solicitor’s office tomorrow and tell them he’s fired you. He might not have the right to do that until the probate is settled,’ Mrs Hardy said.

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas, it will be good to have free time to cook for my own family this year. You’ll remember what it’s usually like here?’

  Mrs Hardy sat down on a chair by the table. ‘Yes, well, in the years before the mistress took to staying upstairs. All those nieces and nephews, the parlour games, decorating the house, and so much preparation. But they were happy times, weren’t they?’

  She looked to Cook and Mabel, and smiled. ‘Now let’s have a slice of that Christmas cake I saw Cook stowing away. It would be a terrible thing to see Bedford and his greedy daughters eat it all. And Mabel can nip up and get the sherry from the drawing room. Let’s celebrate our good fortune.’

  Mabel went to get the sherry, regardless of the fact that she had nothing to celebrate. She had no intention of spoiling the happy mood in the kitchen by making them fret as to what was going to happen to her. But she was scared.

  5

  On the 23rd of December, less than two weeks after his previous visit to number six, Mr Bedford returned at two in the afternoon, using a key to get in. Mrs Hardy and Mabel were in the dining room, packing the last of the china and glass ornaments Mrs Lavinia Forester wanted, and it startled them to see Bedford glowering at them from the hall.

  ‘Good afternoon sir,’ Mrs Hardy said nervously. ‘Mabel and I are just packing up these last few things for Mrs Forester. She’s already taken everything else.’

  Mr Bedford stood in the doorway of the dining room, looking astounded that it was devoid of all furniture. ‘I didn’t expect her to strip the place,’ he said with great indignation, touching a mark on the wall where a painting had been. ‘She was only supposed to take a few keepsakes.’

  Mrs Hardy glanced at Mabel and frowned. Lavinia Forester and Robert, her husband, had called just over a week ago and earmarked all the things they wanted. The following day a removal company came and took the furniture, and all the large paintings and mirrors. Plus many boxes of furs, evening dresses and all Mrs Gladsworthy’s jewellery, except the pieces that had been left to Frank Bedford’s daughters.

  Mabel had helped with the packing up, and Mrs Forester had confided that she would rather give the remainder of clothes and furniture to a charity for those in need than leave anything for Frank Bedford, who she detested.

  ‘I don’t want his miserable wife or those ghastly girls of his walking around in dear Elizabeth’s beautiful frocks,’ she said, then laughed nervously as if she felt she shouldn’t really say such things.

  She wanted Mabel to take some of the clothes too, but Mabel pointed out she was in mourning and so took only a black wool coat, another black dress and some black, fine-quality shoes that felt like slippers, they were so comfortable. ‘Besides, Mr Bedford is likely to take anything else from me,’ she explained. ‘I’m half expecting him to come and throw me out anyway.’

  ‘If he does, you must get in touch with me,’ Mrs Forester said. ‘I know people who need help in their homes, and Mrs Hardy thinks very highly of you. But if Frank has got any sense, he’ll keep you on, it isn’t easy to get competent staff these days.’

  Mrs Forester had given Mabel her address near Dorchester before she left, leaving instructions that the remainder of the items she wanted were to be packed and sent on to her.

  ‘As I understood it, sir, Mrs Forester could take what she liked,’ Mrs Hardy ventured bravely. She didn’t add that just yesterday a man from a charity had come with a big van and taken all the left-over furniture, bedding, clothes, books and kitchen utensils. All that was left now were Mabel and Mrs Hardy’s beds, linen for them, a few towels and essentials – crockery, pots and cutlery – plus a table and chairs in the kitchen. ‘The jewellery for your daughters is up in your sister’s bedroom.’

  ‘I cannot believe that woman would be so grasping,’ he said vehemently, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘It isn’t as if she is in need.’

  ‘Maybe she knows people who are?’ Mrs Hardy suggested, and Mabel had to turn away to hide her amusement. ‘I’m sure you didn’t really want Mrs Gladsworthy’s old things? She often used to say her house was cluttered with old hand-me-downs. You can start afresh now.’

  Mabel had heard her old mistress say such things, but only in jest, as almost every item of furniture had been made by craftsmen a hundred or more years ago. The French clocks, the Persian rugs and exquisite Italian glass were almost priceless, or so Mrs Hardy said.

  Bedford made a kind of growl in his throat; he was clenching and unclenching his hands in anger. He probably realized Lavinia Forester had taken everything to upset him.

  ‘There will be nothing for you to do now the house is empty,’ he snarled at Mrs Hardy. ‘So, you might as well clear off now. She had no business leaving you the mews house, that should’ve remained with this property.’

  ‘You are dismissing me, sir?’ Mrs Hardy gasped in shock. ‘Just like that! Before Christmas, after all the years I’ve worked here?’

  ‘Of course I’m dismissing you, a house devoid of furniture doesn’t need a housekeeper. I can’t think why you sound so aggrieved, you’ve had the life of Riley all these years. And I’ve no doubt you twisted my sister’s arm to make her give you the mews house and money.’

  A surge of anger erupted in Mabel; the very thought of Mrs Hardy using guile to get the mistress to leave her something was unthinkable. She rounded on the man.

  ‘How could you say such a thing?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Hardy couldn’t have done more for our mistress – and she did it willingly, out of affection, not for what it might bring her. You should be ashamed of yourself! You are the mistress’s brother, and yet you didn’t visit her when she could barely get out of her bed for pain.’

  ‘How dare you?’ he roared back at her. ‘I won’t take such insolence from a mere maid. Get out of this house, this minute. Out now!’

  Mabel remembered all the times she’d taken verbal abuse from Agnes without ever fighting back. She also knew Mr Bedford would get the police to eject her if she didn’t go. But she could at least speak her mind.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to stay in the same room with such a greedy, self-centred, stupid man,’ she shouted back at him. ‘No wonder the mistress left almost everything to her husband’s family. They deserved it.’

  He leapt forward and slapped her face hard.

  Mabel wanted to cry, it hurt so much, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. ‘So, you are a coward who hits women too,’ she retorted. ‘It seems you have no saving graces.’

  She didn’t wait for him to hit her again but ran up the stairs to her room. She wanted to throw herself on her bed and cry – after all, she had no job now, nowhere to sleep tonight, and he obviously wasn’t going to give her the month’s wages due to her. But her pride wouldn’t let her resort to tears.

  It took only a few moments to gather herself. She put on the black coat, hat and shoes Mrs Forester had given her, and pushed her old cloak, bonnet and shoes into her bag, along with her other old things. Taking one last look around the room, remembering how happy she’d been here for almost a year, she straightened her back, bit back tears and went down the stairs.

  Mr Bedford was standing in the hall. Mabel realized he’d stayed there to prevent her speaking to Mrs Hardy.

  ‘I hope you won’t have one happy moment in this house,’ she said in a loud voice, hoping that, wherever Mrs Hardy was, she’d hear her. ‘But you haven’t seen the last of me, I’ve got to know many old friends of your sister here in Clifton, and I’ll soon get another place with one of them. Do pass on my good wishes to Mrs Hardy, I’ll be round to see her soon.’

  He opened the front door and she could see he wanted to hit her again, but she skipped quickly past him. Once on the doorstep, she turned on her heels and grinned at him.

  ‘I wish you an utterly mise
rable Christmas!’

  She felt a brief moment’s satisfaction that she’d had the last word. Then she hurried off towards Regent Street, as if she had a plan.

  But that was play-acting. Once she was out of his sight around the corner, she stopped short, her heart racing. She was shaking with shock at her predicament. Homeless, close to tears, with very little money, no character and unlikely to find another job so close to Christmas. Things couldn’t get any worse.

  Mrs Hardy would perhaps take her in at the mews flat, but the housekeeper had been so busy packing up Mrs Forester’s things, she hadn’t been able to go in to clean it, or see what she needed for it. The last person to live there had been Mr Gladsworthy’s groom, and he’d left after the master’s riding accident, as his horse had to be put down because of a severe injury.

  At the time the will was read, Mrs Hardy had said that it was over a year since she’d been into the place, and she’d been horrified by the cobwebs and filth. But as much as she’d always intended to give it a good spring clean, she’d forgotten about it.

  One thing Mabel knew about the housekeeper was, however nasty Mr Bedford had been to her today, and despite being ordered out, she wouldn’t leave number six until she’d completed what she considered to be her duty. That would mean sending off the last parcel to Mrs Forester and cleaning the house from top to bottom.

  Unfortunately, Mr Bedford was certain to stay there too, if only to make sure Mrs Hardy didn’t take anything from the house. Mabel couldn’t go and knock on the front door and offer to clean the mews flat in return for a bed for a few nights.

  She knew exactly how much money she had – two pounds, sixteen shillings and sixpence – because she’d counted it the previous day. That wouldn’t go far, especially if she wanted to get to Dorchester to ask Mrs Forester for a job. If she went to Mrs Gladsworthy’s solicitor, he’d probably side with Mr Bedford – after all, a maid was nothing to people like them. As for Mrs Tweed, the cook, she probably would have helped, but Mabel had no idea where she lived.

  It was about sixty miles to Dorchester. Would a train take her there? Everyone said all the train services were disrupted because of collecting up wounded servicemen and getting them to hospitals. With Christmas so close, that would only make it worse, but she could go to the station and ask.

  By the time she got down into the centre of Bristol and reached the tram terminus, it was dark. As always, it was full of jostling crowds, and in her present state of mind that made her nervous. There were a great many drunken men lurching about too. The smell of roast chestnuts mingled with horse droppings and stale beer, making her feel a bit sick, so she hastily crossed the town centre to take the shortcut through the backstreets to the station.

  Mabel had walked this way to reach Bristol Bridge several times before, but always in daylight. On those occasions she’d found the cobbled streets lined with banks and intriguing small shops, a part of town she wanted to linger in. But now the street lamps were so dim they only lit up a small radius around them, making the shadows beyond look menacing, and she felt there were people lurking unseen in dark doorways. Suddenly she was scared and wanted to return to where there were people and light, but her bag had grown heavy and she reminded herself this way was quicker.

  She didn’t hear any warning footsteps that someone was behind her. So when a big, smelly hand was clamped over her mouth, and her shoulder held in a vice-like grip, she became rigid with terror.

  ‘Don’t struggle or I’ll hurt you,’ a rasping male voice said. Pressing his body against her back, he pushed her into a narrow, dark alleyway.

  The only thought that ran through her head then was that he would spoil her new coat, or even steal it. Later she was shocked that material things seemed so important when he might be going to kill her.

  ‘Now what’ve you got for me, my lovely?’ he asked, and while keeping one hand over her mouth he wrenched her bag from her hand.

  He smelled terrible, like he’d come out of a sewer, and she judged from the way he held her he was around five foot ten and strongly built. She hoped that as he began to rummage through her bag, he might loosen his grip on her and she could make a run for it.

  Clearly, he’d done this before, because with only a cursory delve into her bag, and finding no purse, he let go of her face, caught hold of her two arms and twisted them back towards him.

  ‘Where’s yer money?’ he rasped.

  ‘I haven’t got any,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been dismissed from my job. I’m walking home to my folks.’

  He spun her round and pushed her hard up against the alley wall with his body. ‘Don’cha lie to me, I knows you got money, I can smell it.’

  There was just enough light to see he was dirty and ragged; his face was gaunt and his hair was straggling on to his shoulders. Many of his teeth were missing; only the whites of his eyes showed up clearly. He looked and sounded old, but the strength in his hands and body suggested otherwise.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ she whimpered. ‘All I’ve got is a shilling or two in my pocket.’

  He thrust his hand into her pockets and brought out the small sum she’d put in there. The rest of her money was in a small linen bag tucked into the bodice of her petticoat.

  ‘You think that fools me,’ he roared at her, clearly no longer worried about silence. ‘Where’s the rest?’ He punched her in the stomach so hard she was winded.

  ‘I told you, there is none,’ she wheezed.

  He caught hold of her hair and punched her in the face, not once but three times. With that he threw her down on the ground, kicked her soundly in the ribs and stomach and began to search her.

  Nothing she’d ever experienced came close to the shock and horror of that man’s hands under her dress. He groped around the top of her stockings, into her drawers and up to her breasts. She thought he was going to rape her, there in the filthy alley, but when his fingers finally found the linen bag and tore it from where she’d pinned it to her petticoat, she sensed he was done.

  ‘You could’ve given me that straight off and saved your pretty face,’ he said, leaning over her. ‘But cos you never, now I’m gonna teach you a lesson.’

  He kicked her repeatedly, until mercifully everything went black.

  She came to later, to find herself virtually paralysed with cold. When she tried to get to her feet, pain overwhelmed her. She couldn’t even say where the pain was coming from; it was all over. Sinking down again, she cried at her helplessness. She attempted to crawl then, hoping to reach the main street and get help, but although she managed about twelve yards, it was agony – and furthermore, she realized she was going further into the alley, not out of it.

  Perhaps she passed out again, because the next thing she became aware of was someone telling her to wake up.

  There was a strong smell of urine in the alley and she was so cold she thought the voice was just a dream.

  ‘Come on, open yer eyes and look at me! If you stays ’ere you’ll freeze to death.’

  This time Mabel was aware the woman’s voice was real. She forced herself to open her eyes. She could only see a dark shape looming over her.

  ‘Upsy-daisy,’ the woman said, putting one hand under Mabel’s arm and pulling her upright. ‘My God, someone’s given you a right working over!’

  The pain of being pulled to her feet almost made her faint again, but she couldn’t let that happen. ‘He took my money,’ she tried to say, but her mouth was so painful it sounded like a mere groan.

  ‘There’s some right bastards around here,’ the woman said, and picked up Mabel’s bag. ‘But I live close by, let me get you there and clean you up.’

  Every step Mabel took was like red-hot knives being stuck into her; it even hurt to breathe. But the woman had her arm around her to support her, and she encouraged her by saying she’d feel better once she was in the warm. It crossed Mabel’s mind that this woman might be intending to rob or hurt her in some way too, but the lure of being in the warm w
as worth the risk.

  She led Mabel down another even narrower alley and stopped at a heavy wooden gate, some eight feet tall, which she unlocked. ‘It’s no palace but it’s warm and safe,’ she said, drawing Mabel into a yard that was too dark for her to see anything. From there the woman unlocked another door into the building.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘Now just bear with me while I light the gas.’

  Mabel hadn’t heard a gas mantel being lit since she last went to the chapel in Hallsands. The sound and smell of the match being struck, the gas in the pipe, then the pop as it caught the flame brought back the memory of her old village and kindly neighbours, so sharply that her eyes welled up with tears.

  ‘There, there,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t cry, you’re safe now. Let me sit you down and stir up the fire. Then I can bathe your face.’

  There were just two rooms; a living room that doubled as a kitchen, and through a door she could see a bedroom. The living room was much the same as many working people’s homes Mabel had been in throughout her life. A central table covered with a dark green cloth, the gas light above it. A rag rug in front of the fire and two easy chairs either side of it. The walls were papered, but the pattern had faded and above the back door it was peeling off. A small dresser stood next to a sink; the collection of china on it didn’t match, but there was a neatness to the room that was reassuring.

  ‘I’m Nora Nightingale,’ the woman said as she helped Mabel to sit down by the fire. ‘The Nightingale is made up, as it sounded right for a medium. But don’t tell anyone that!’

  Mabel gulped and tried to control her sore mouth enough to speak. ‘Mabel Brook,’ she said haltingly. ‘Thank you so much for your kindness. What’s a medium?’

  ‘I speak to the dead,’ Nora replied, and on seeing Mabel’s shock she laughed. ‘No, you ain’t dead. I’m real and so are your injuries.’

  As the gas light grew brighter and the fire responded to a poke and more fuel, Mabel could see that Nora was small and buxom, with untidy fair hair and red cheeks. She appeared to be around thirty years old. It was the face of a country woman, Mabel thought – and like her she wore black, and a wedding ring.