Storms Gather Between Us

by Storms Gather Between Us (retail) (epub)

  Henderson senior’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘“A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband:”’ he intoned ‘“but she that maketh him ashamed is as rottenness in his bones.” Proverbs Chapter 12, Verse 4’. She thought of the words Sam had spoken when they were in the back room at her home – about their fathers being like sepulchres painted white on the outside but filled with rotting bones within. The rottenness he had referred to, arose from their hypocrisy not from the shameful behaviour of any woman. And what might constitute shameful behaviour anyway? But she knew the answer to that one already. To these men, shame came from women who spoke their minds, who dared to read books, who showed even the slightest hint of disobedience – in fact who did anything that was not a direct fulfilment of the wishes of a man.

  The pastor had now moved on to a subject that made her feel even more uncomfortable – and looking sideways at Sam she saw he was squirming too. This time, he quoted Proverbs 5 ‘“May your fountain be blessed, and may you rejoice in the wife of your youth. A loving deer – may her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be intoxicated with her love.”’ The pastor looked around at the assembled men and Hannah could feel all their eyes upon her. It was worse than the catcalls and wolf-whistles of the dockers. She knew they were all imagining her naked breasts. All except Sam Henderson. He was studying the floor and she could see his face was angry.

  Henderson went on to pronounce the couple man and wife. The actual marriage part of the ceremony was so brief as to be almost an afterthought. At this point, the pastor signalled Hannah and Samuel to follow him and he led them over to a table at the side of the room where they were to sign the marriage registry. Dawson signed too and two other men acted as witnesses. The deed was done. She was now Mrs Samuel Henderson.

  No ring. No flowers. No bridesmaids. No wedding breakfast. No gown. Not even the presence of her mother and sister. Was she really married? All there was to show for it was her signature in a book.

  The men gathered around Sam to shake his hand and wish him well. Her future happiness was evidently inconsequential. She stood to one side waiting, her eyes still stinging, the pain in her arm smarting and her spirits lower than they had ever been in her life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hannah experienced no immediate difference in her status as a married woman compared to her single state. When the wedding ceremony, such as it was, had concluded, she was ignored by all present.

  Sam approached her, his face gloomy.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’m to take you back to our house. I think my father’s rather hoping you’ll give it a good clean.’ He had the grace to look apologetic.

  She turned to Sam. ‘What about you?’

  He looked at her blankly. ‘What about me? I’m going back to work.’

  ‘I don’t even know what you do.’ She looked across the room nervously to where her father was now deep in conversation with the pastor and three other men.

  ‘I’m an accounts clerk,’ Sam said. ‘I work for the council and I need to get back there now.’ He stretched his lips into a semblance of a smile. ‘I’ll drop you off, then see you at home tonight.’

  They took the bus. She had no idea where Walton was or how to get there. Nor was there any question of her going back to Bootle. Not with Sam guarding her and not so much as a ha’penny in her pocket. Her offer to go alone was met with a refusal – Sam was clearly under orders. He was silent on the trip, evidently irritated at the need to escort her and delay his arrival at work further. Hannah looked out of the window of the bus, trying to gain her bearings, hoping to recognise a landmark and find out where exactly she was and how far away from her mother and sister in Bootle and the docks. But what was the point of knowing that. She was stuck now. None of them could help her. She was now Mrs Samuel Henderson and might as well start getting used to that, no matter how much her heart screamed against it.

  Descending from the bus at Walton Vale, they trudged up the road to their destination in Moss Lane. Hannah’s spirits were at rock bottom. What lay ahead? Tied in marriage to a man who clearly wished he wasn’t married to her – or possibly married at all, and living under the roof of the stern and cold pastor, doubtless subject to frequent tirades from him. Her father had barely spoken a word to her after the ceremony. No affectionate embrace – not even a handshake or a word of congratulations. There was no doubt in her mind that he viewed her nuptials as akin to a business transaction.

  For a moment, Hannah wished that she’d never set eyes on Will Kidd as, if she hadn’t, her present situation might not seem quite so terrible. But she had met him, fallen for him and couldn’t stop thinking about him in every waking moment. Why was God so cruel to put this man in her path, let her fall in love with him and then send her away from him? It was a nasty vicious joke. Just the kind of trick that the vengeful petty God her father so respected would play. A God who’d order a man to murder his own son and then send an angel in the nick of time to admit he’d been testing him. God didn’t even have the courage to tell Abraham himself, leaving it to an angel to do his dirty work.

  Hannah supposed it was at least some consolation to know that she had loved and been loved in return. But unable to show that love, all she had now of Will was the memory of a few tender kisses, and a proposal of marriage she couldn’t act upon.

  Sam halted outside a big house. The Laurels was at least as substantial as the former Morton family home, Trevelyan House. An imposing, detached, Victorian villa, it was partly concealed from the road by an untrimmed privet hedge. The garden had once been laid to lawn but was now reduced to a scruffy tangle of weeds and litter blown in from the street. Unlike the surrounding houses, all smartly painted and with neat gardens, this one had an air of neglect.

  ‘I’m going now. I’m late. See you this evening. She’ll let you in.’ Then he was gone.

  Hannah stood on the front path. Who was ‘she’? The pastor was a widower, but perhaps he kept a servant.

  Ringing the doorbell produced no jangle, so taking a deep breath, she knocked on the tarnished brass knocker. Sensing movement inside, she waited in the porch, anxiety eating away at her. The door opened and a blonde woman leaned against the frame, looking Hannah up and down. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘I’ve just married Samuel. I’m the new Mrs Henderson,’ she said, thinking as she said them that the words sounded ridiculous.

  To her astonishment the woman burst out laughing. ‘Are you indeed? Nobody tells me nothing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Who are you? Nobody tells me anything either.’ Hannah smiled at her.

  Ignoring the question, the woman said, ‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped back into the gloomy interior, holding the door for Hannah to enter. Inside there was a stale smell of boiled cabbage.

  ‘No bags?’

  It was the first time Hannah realised she hadn’t even brought a change of clothes. It had all happened so quickly. ‘No, I will need to collect my things from home.’ Again she felt foolish saying it.

  ‘And where might home be? Well – until now.’ The woman chuckled.

  ‘Bootle. Quite near the Huskisson Dock.’

  ‘Not that it means anything to me. I’m a Londoner.’ She offered no explanation as to why she was here or what her role in the house was. ‘I s’pose you could do with a cup of the old Rosy Lee.’ By now they were in the kitchen. A wooden clothes rack hung overhead, and Hannah had to step aside to avoid the drips from the assorted stockings, socks and underwear hanging there. The woman told her to sit and went into the scullery beyond to make the tea.

  Hannah sat down, then jumped with fright as she felt something brush against her ankle. A ginger cat. It slid past her other leg and then wandered into the scullery too. She heard the woman open the back door. ‘Git out of ’ere, you little bugger!’

  She returned with two cups of tea, minus the saucers. ‘Saves washing up,’ she said. Once seated she offered her hand to Hannah. ‘I’m
Nancy Cunningham. But you can call me Nance. Everybody does.’

  Accepting the handshake, she answered, ‘I’m Hannah.’

  While she sipped her tea, Hannah studied the woman. She was whip thin, sharp-boned, her narrow mouth heavily coated in bright red lipstick that had strayed beyond the natural line of her lips onto the surrounding skin, possibly by design. Her hair looked as though it had more than a passing acquaintance with the peroxide bottle. Dark roots showed in a wide band where the hair parted. There was a roller behind her right ear that she had evidently forgotten to remove when she’d brushed her hair out that morning. Hannah guessed her age at between thirty-five and forty.

  ‘You’ve left a curler in your hair,’ she pointed out.

  Nance lifted a hand and removed the offending article. ‘Always doing that. No bleeding mirrors in this house. Thanks.’ She looked at Hannah in undisguised appraisal. ‘So you’ve got yourself hitched to young Sam then. Hadn’t got him down as the marrying kind. If you get what I mean.’ She gave a little snigger. ‘He kept quiet about you then. When did it happen? Short engagement, I presume?’

  Hannah was embarrassed. ‘We were married this morning. It was all quite sudden. Our fathers are friends.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. I imagine neither of you had a lot of say in the matter.’ Another little guffaw. ‘Not exactly romantic is it? Did they send you home on your own in a taxi then?’

  Hannah felt herself blushing again. ‘We got the bus. He came with me as far as the front gate.’

  The woman burst out laughing then stopped herself and gave Hannah what appeared to be a kind smile. ‘’Ow old are you, love?’

  ’Twenty-two. Almost.’

  ‘Going on fifteen. Where did you get that dress? Looks like something my late mother would wear.’

  Indignant, Hannah said nothing.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see if I can find summat to fit you. Us girls ’ave to stick together.’

  ‘Excuse me, Nance, are you Mr Henderson’s daughter? Sam’s sister?’

  The woman roared laughing again. ‘Blimey! You got to be joking! I’m his floozie. His bit on the side. His fancy woman.’

  ‘Sam’s?’ Hannah struggled to hide her shock.

  ‘Gawd, no! The old man’s. The main man.’

  ‘Mr Henderson! But he’s a pastor, a man of God. Surely that can’t be right. Isn’t it adultery if you’re not married?’

  ‘More than plain adultery, girl. He’s a walking advertisement for all the sins he condemns from his platform. Kinky ain’t the word. Then he toddles out of here and goes to that chapel of his and tells the buggers they’ll all burn in hell for doing half of what he gets up to.’

  Hannah’s face burned in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘Look, love, I don’t believe in beating about the bush. I came to Liverpool to get away from a rotten husband. Used to beat the blazes out of me, so I upped and left him. Came to Liverpool because it was as far away as I could afford to pay for a train ticket.’ She twirled the lid of the teapot around idly. ‘To cut a long story short I ended up on the game. His Lordship was one of my best customers.’

  ‘His Lordship?’

  ‘Mr High-and-Mighty Henderson. Old Fire and Brimstone himself.’

  Hannah gasped. ‘The pastor went with prostitutes?’

  The woman laughed. ‘You really are an innocent abroad aren’t you? He was legendary. But he has some unusual tastes, shall we say? Not all the girls were happy. I’m up for anything if the money’s right and there’s no bruising. So he always asked for me. After a while he decided to cut out the middle man and moved me in here. For his exclusive use.’

  Hannah was lost for words. She stared at Nance across the table.

  ‘Never met a prozzie before?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Not that I am any more. A kept woman is more accurate. But as far as you’re concerned I’m ’is late wife’s sister.’

  ‘His sister-in-law?’

  ‘He’d like me to say I’m the ’ousekeeper, but I told him I’m not ’aving that as it might give people the idea that I’m going to be doing the cooking and cleaning. One thing you need to get straight right from the start, Mrs Hannah Henderson, is I ain’t doing no ’ousework. That’s strictly your department.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Now, mind you don’t let on I told you all this. His Lordship wouldn’t like you to know about his inclinations. He likes to keep up the appearance of a man of God. Although he makes so much bloody noise I imagine the whole bleeding street knows what he gets up to.’

  ‘So, he isn’t a man of God then?’

  ‘He is when it suits him. It can be a lucrative business, religion. At least he’s found a way to make a tidy profit from it. Not that I’m supposed to know about such matters.’ She got up from the table. ‘Right. If you’ve finished your tea, I’ll show you around.’

  Ignoring the rest of the ground floor, Nance led her upstairs. ‘He keeps the ground floor rooms for ’is own use. The front one is for when men from his church come to visit. He sometimes ’as meetings with them. And then there’s the drawing room and study. Keep out of the study. Well, if you’re smart you’ll keep out of all of them. Stick to the parlour with me, girl, if you want to keep out of trouble.’

  The upstairs landing was dark, with heavy, begrimed net curtains on the only window which was anyway shaded by a tree outside. All the doors were closed.

  ‘Bathroom in ’ere,’ she said. ‘Only use it when he’s not at home. There’s a privy in the back yard for when he is.’ Hannah looked inside. The bath was heavily stained, the linoleum floor covering cracked, and a couple of greying towels were slung over a rail. ‘You’ll need to do some washing if you want a clean towel. Like I say, I’m not the bleedin’ ’ousekeeper. You can have a bath once a week, but remember, only when he’s out. He’ll not be pleased if he wants to take a shit and you’re soaking in the bath.’

  Ignoring the unpleasant image that conjured up, Hannah asked, ‘Is he out a lot?’

  ‘Both of them are. Gawd knows where – Sam goes to evening classes, I think. I’m certainly not complaining when they’re out. It’s nice to ’ave some peace and quiet. Sometimes I go to the flicks and there’s a gang of us girls who have a game of bingo every now and then.’

  She opened another door off the landing. ‘This is me in ’ere. I insisted on ’having me own room. I do what I ’ave to do for him but I’m darned if I’m going to spend all night in his bed, kept awake by his snoring.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I ’ad enough of that when I had a ruddy husband. No thank you!’ Before Hannah could look inside, Nance had pulled the door shut again. She indicated the adjacent room. ‘In ’ere’s His Lordship’s room. Biggest in the house. Out of bounds to you, of course. There’s stuff in there you’re better off not seeing.’

  Hannah shuddered. The idea of crossing the threshold into the pastor’s bedroom was not something she was tempted by.

  ‘This here’s a box room. It’s full of junk as far as I can tell.’ She held the door open wide and Hannah saw a dismantled bed frame, a collection of battered looking suitcases and trunks, and several tea chests. ‘It would make a nice nursery.’ She gave her a nudge in the ribs.

  Nance flung open the door to the last room. ‘And I suppose you’ll be in here. With him. Sam.’ Inside, was a neat, sparsely furnished space, containing only a brass bed, a rug on one side, a washstand in the corner and a night table with a lamp and a copy of the Bible.

  Hannah tried not to think about lying in that bed beside Sam Henderson. The whole day had been surreal so far and she didn’t want to imagine having to climb under the bedclothes to spend the night with a virtual stranger. Her knowledge of sex was limited to what she had read in books and the noises she had heard from her parents’ room – which in recent years had mostly ceased or been replaced by screams and blows. In the books she read, the details were usually skated over, but she got the impression that the participants
were overwhelmed by a consuming passion. That was something she found impossible to imagine would occur between herself and Sam, but she’d recently begun to anticipate it with a frisson when thinking about Will.

  Remembering she had no luggage, she turned to Nance. ‘I have to go home and collect a bag. I don’t even have my toothbrush or nightgown.’

  Nance laughed. ‘A woman doesn’t usually need a nightgown on her wedding night, love.’ She paused. ‘But then again since it’s Sammy Boy, maybe you will. Somehow, I can’t see him as the sort to tear a girl’s clothes off. Much the pity, as he’s a good-looking lad. I’d rather have a bit of the old slap ’n tickle with him than with his old man. But somehow I don’t reckon slap ’n tickle’s his thing.’

  She gave Hannah a quizzical look. ‘How well do you know him?’

  Hannah walked over to the window and looked out. The view was over the street and the overgrown front garden. She turned back to face Nance. ‘I don’t know him at all. Before today I’d met him once and that was brief.’

  Nance gave a long tuneful whistle. ‘Blimey, love. How do you feel about that then?’

  ‘If you really want to know. I don’t feel happy at all. In fact, right now, I wish I were dead.’

  Nance moved across the room and gave her a quick hug. ‘It’s not as bad as all that, love. Could be a whole lot worse. He’s a decent enough fellow, is Sam. Always civil. Minds his own business. He’s clean. Polite. Dresses smartly. Has a job. Quite a good one, I believe. As long as you keep out of the old man’s way. Yes, you could have done a lot worse. And unlike my ex, I can’t see him lifting a hand to clobber you. Not Sam.’

  ‘But he’s a stranger to me.’

  Nance sat down on the bed and patted the candlewick bedspread to signal Hannah should sit beside her. ‘Listen love, don’t expect me to feel a lot of sympathy for you on that count. When you’re on the game, every man’s a stranger until you build up your regulars. And a lot of them are old, smelly, foul-breathed, ugly, and expect you to do all kinds of things for them. When you’re desperate and need the cash, you just have to get on with it.’