by Maggie Ford
‘This is my mother,’ she announced proudly.
Someone was running down the steps from the registry office, a young man, full of bounce and energy, his tone cheery but urgent as he called out:
‘Sorry to interrupt but Uncle James is waiting. I’m Anthony by the way – his only nephew, his sister Eileen’s son, who’s a widow. Lost me father ages ago, killed in the Boer War. I was eleven, and when—’
‘No more, Tony dear!’ Lydia cut in. ‘We must go in. Is your mother coming in with us?’ she asked Madeleine, who turned anxiously towards her mother.
‘Are you coming in, Mummy?’ Her mother gave a small nod, and meekly allowed herself to be guided up the steps by the effusive Anthony.
It made her day for her, having her at the ceremony, brief though it was. But her mother left almost immediately it was over, not staying for the celebratory gathering.
‘I don’t know how long it will take me to get home and I must be home before your father or I shall have to tell lies or get poor Miles into trouble,’ she said, already becoming tense at the thought. ‘I told Cook, Mrs Plumley – she’s still with us – that I was going to visit a friend in Beaconsfield. So I must make sure to be home and settled in time for your father.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Mummy?’ Madeleine asked anxiously.
Her mother nodded. ‘I shall be just fine.’
There was an unusual confidence in her voice. ‘I shall telephone from the station for Miles to come and collect me.’
This was another surprise. Her mother had always been intimidated by the telephone. As she left she gave Madeleine a kiss on the cheek saying, ‘Take care of yourself, Madeleine my dear, and be happy. I’m so very pleased for you. You will be fine from now on. And so shall I.’
With that she got into the taxicab James had found for her, waving as the vehicle drew away, leaving Madeleine weeping silently deep inside.
‘I love you, Mummy,’ she whispered as the taxi turned the corner out of sight. It was the last time she ever saw her mother.
She wrote during her short honeymoon in Derbyshire, saying that she hoped she was keeping well but she never received a reply. She guessed that her father would have probably intercepted it, opened it, read it and torn it up. Her mother would have been left never knowing she had written to her.
She was glad that she had purposely not mentioned their meeting, knowing her father of old, merely said she was happy being married, had plenty of money and didn’t need handouts any more – this meant for her father’s eyes – so there was no need to worry about her any more. She had not expected a response from him nor did she get one.
* * *
It was eighteen months later when she did hear – a letter arriving through his solicitor saying that her mother had been suffering from a galloping consumption for near on a year and had passed away early the previous week, her funeral having taken place two days ago. Such was her father’s attitude towards her, his own daughter, that he’d not even told her of her mother’s condition much less informing her of her death except through his solicitor, even worse deliberately keeping the date of the funeral from her.
The shock of hearing it in this way was like a fist hitting her between the eyes, grief like a dagger to the heart. James found her crumpled up on a sofa in the drawing room, her face buried in a cushion, one arm dangling, the letter limp between her fingers, on the point of fluttering to the floor.
He was by her side in seconds. ‘My dear, what is it? What is wrong?’
When she made no reply, he bent and retrieved the now fallen letter to quickly scan its contents. She heard his gasp of horror and when he finally spoke his tone was a mixture of anger and astonishment.
‘I can’t believe your father could do this to you. How could anyone be so callous?’
With that he bent and gathered her up into his arms, she allowing him to do so without any will of her own left to resist.
‘I am so terribly sorry, my dear,’ he murmured like one crooning to a child. ‘I met your poor mother only the once when she came to attend our marriage ceremony but I found her to be an exceptionally nice person. I took a liking to her on the instant of meeting her.’ His arms had tightened about her in a new surge of disbelief.
‘How could your father withhold her illness from you, much less not informing you of her tragic end, nor of the funeral. It seems to me quite deliberate. Forgive me but how vicious and cruel can the man be?’
Madeleine pulled herself away from his grip to throw herself back on to the sofa, though this time to sit upright, trying to collect herself. There was no need to forgive James his opinions. She was entirely in agreement. It was unbelievable how cruel her father could be. It made her heart ache and she vowed that to the day she died, she’d never forgive him.
Sitting on the sofa beside her, James said quietly, ‘You must put it behind you, my dear.’ Gently he took her hand. She let it linger there.
‘Try to think of nicer things,’ he went on. ‘Our companionship, the happiness you now have. I have made you happy, haven’t I, my dear?’
She nodded without speaking as he went on: ‘Think back to the lovely time on our honeymoon. I know it was nowhere exotic such as I would have loved to take you were it not for this terrible war. But when it is finally over, I will take you to places you have never seen before. I’ll make sure you’ll never be sad again, my dear.’
Listening to him, Madeleine’s mind went back to that first night at his home before travelling off to Derbyshire. She’d been so on edge, hardly able to concentrate on being introduced to his staff – Merton his manservant, his cook and housekeeper Mrs Cole, the housemaid Beattie, and Lily the scullery maid, and Robert his chauffeur – for thinking of James expecting to exercise his marital rights once upstairs. But he’d done nothing of the kind.
She’d never set foot in any of the upper rooms of his home and with heavily beating heart had allowed herself to be led up there, he preceding her, having not so much as held her hand, allowing her to follow two steps behind. In fact he had been as awkward and embarrassed as she, following him into the large, splendid bedroom with its big double bed which she instantly guessed had once been his and his first wife’s, they no doubt far more at ease with each other during their married life than James and she were at that moment, would ever be.
She hardly remembered what he had said, her mind more on the problem of changing into night attire and having to lay beside him. She did remember them both standing in the centre of the room a few inches apart, he leaning forward to kiss her, and apparently sensing her slight, instinctive almost, recoil and had instantly stepped back from her, going to a little table to one side that held a decanter of brandy and two glasses and had said as he poured out a tiny measure for each of them, ‘Maybe a small nightcap for us both.’
It was then she’d realized how awkward he too was feeling, and out of compassion for him, had forced herself to relax, taking the glass he’d offered with its tiny measure of spirit.
‘To our companionship,’ he had said quietly.
The word companionship had come as an overwhelming relief as he’d leaned forward and kissed her cheek – a tender kiss; no embrace, the kiss of an elderly man to a child, not what she had expected. She’d been nineteen, he indeed elderly in comparison, and now her husband. His moustache had felt soft against her skin, his lips even softer; flaccid, and she remembered having instantly recalled the firm demand of another much younger man’s lips on hers that had made her insides squirm with desire, and then had come the thought: what had she done, marrying a man thirty-seven years her senior? But she knew – so that one day she’d have her child back.
Since then she had raised the subject time and time again, yet more than eighteen months later he was still making excuses not to trace the baby – after all this time it might well be impossible; nothing to go on; his stockbroker business demanding all his attention right now; the way the war was going so many other concer
ns taking precedence.
She’d even suspected a personal reluctance to have a child, any child, especially one not of his blood, around him at his age. She’d begun to ask him less and less these days, slowly seeing the sense behind his reasoning. It had been a long time and that deep longing, that ache she used to feel had begun to diminish a little. Her life had settled down. Other than a reluctance to trace the child, he gave her everything she desired, while continuing to see their marriage as mere companionship for which she was grateful.
He had never attempted to make love to her. The nearest he had ever come to physical affection was a tender kiss on her forehead or taking her arm when out together or to help her in and out his Wolseley limousine before his chauffeur could reach her, even tucking the travelling blanket around her knees which was more the chauffeur’s job.
It was always a loving gesture on his part, this care for her comfort and safety and for that she was grateful, in turn vowing to be faithful to him. But every so often came that secret yearning for a younger man’s touch and many times she had caught herself thinking of the young man who had run lightly down the steps of the registry office; a lively, loquacious young man of twenty-six in the uniform of an army captain, who had introduced himself as her husband’s nephew Anthony. But today there was no such yearning.
The solicitor’s letter had loomed back into her mind, smothering those fleeting thoughts that had come from nowhere, unbidden, making her loathe herself for having allowed them in to interfere with her grief, with her intense anger against her father.
Eleven
It was taking forever to pull herself together after hearing about her mother in that way and, despite the solicitor having worded the letter as discreetly and as gently as possible in a bid to cushion the shock, her anger grew each time she thought about it.
‘I know how you must feel, my dear,’ James said as kindly as he could, aware of her continuing distress. ‘It was a dreadful business, I know, but you must try to surmount it or you will make yourself ill.’
‘How can you know what I feel?’ she shot at him.
‘I lost my wife,’ he said simply.
She knew instantly exactly what he meant but wasn’t prepared to give way. ‘How can you compare the two?’ she replied with venom. ‘No one kept the news from you until it was too late to go to her funeral. You’ve no idea how that feels. You’ll never know! Nor will anyone who’s not had it happen to them.’
Rushing from the room she failed to notice the expression of pain those thoughtless words brought.
Her anger and resentment growing rather than diminishing, she knew she could never rest until she faced her father. The following Saturday she told James that she had been invited to spend the day with Margaret Dowling, one of the many friends she’d made from social gatherings she’d begun to arrange since their marriage.
Despite James’s preference for discretion, with the war still raging, hardly any ground being lost or gained, lives of thousands of young men still being sacrificed seemingly for nothing, she continued to look for any excuse for a party to liven a life growing ever more dull with the passing of time.
Slowly she was becoming more and more known for them, thus developing a widening circle of friends these past couple of years. Without them life would have become deadly dull for she’d soon discovered that James was no party-giver, much more preferring his privacy. He’d forever be seeking the first chance to leave a social gathering the second it became the least bit noisy, disappearing usually to talk business somewhere else with a few of those who shared his own business interests.
With Margaret’s husband, Colonel Dowling, being away in France helping conduct the war from the safe distance of some administrative desk or other, she missed his presence and like Madeleine looked forward to any diversion that might make the void seem more bearable.
She lived well west of London so the pretence of visiting her would give Madeleine ample time to travel on to Buckinghamshire and back home without there being any suspicion of her having gone to seek out her father.
Wisdom kept telling her that she was being foolish but she strove to ignore it as she sat on the train from Marylebone watching West London’s skyline change slowly to urban sprawl then to green countryside with small villages trundling by, wartime seeming to give trains every excuse to go slow.
A first-class carriage did afford privacy from the noise and turmoil of second-and third-class ones, but the relative peace only helped to accentuate her thoughts on the possible stupidity of her resolve.
Watching the rain driving across the carriage windows at least helped sweep away that thought but brought instead thoughts of what she’d read in the newspapers of present fearful conditions in Flanders. Reports of men being bogged down in a sea of Flanders mud caused by ceaseless rain and remorseless bombardment around Passchendaele, men being sucked down by the quagmire to their deaths should they slip off the duckboards.
The mounting daily toll of men missing suddenly made her think of James’s nephew, Anthony. He too was somewhere in Belgium. She would find herself constantly praying that he still remained safe, though had he been killed or wounded the news would have reached her and James instantly, she was sure.
As his only nephew, he was his favourite relation. In fact on marrying her James had altered his will previously leaving most of his estate to him. It was now only a quarter of that, the rest, James had told her confidentially so as to reassure her, going to herself which amounted to more than she would ever need or want.
‘The boy already has enough and more,’ he’d told her, ‘left to him by his father, my eldest brother Wilfred, Will, when he passed away. So he is already a wealthy young man in his own right and would want for nothing,’ adding in fond and glowing terms, ‘nor is he at all selfish to begrudge you the major portion of my estate. He is a most likeable young man, I am proud to say. And when this dreadful war is finally over, I sincerely hope to see much more of him. You know, my dear, I do so miss his cheery voice in this house.’
She too found herself hoping to see more of him, suddenly aware of a strange twinge of excitement in her stomach that for a moment managed to smother her feelings of bitterness towards her father.
* * *
She should never have come. Alighting from the taxicab that had brought her here from the railway station in Beaconsfield, her first sight of the house she’d once lived in struck her as remote, different to what she remembered, like the momentarily unexpected impression one gets of even a familiar place when returning from long holidaying in distant parts.
Saturday morning, her father would be home. A man of strict habits, he seldom had any engagement on a Saturday until perhaps the afternoon.
In spite of the steady rain, she had the taxi stop well before reaching the house lest in glancing from the sitting-room window he’d see her and bar her way, though he probably wouldn’t recognize her all that quickly under the large black umbrella she held well down over her head.
She intended to be inside the house before he knew it, rather than standing on the doorstep in full view of the road for any passer-by to witness the inevitable confrontation she knew would occur. To this end she entered by the servants’ entrance, alarming Mrs Plumley in the midst of her cooking as she burst in through the door closed against the steady rain. The woman shot upright like someone scalded, to stand staring at her as if petrified.
‘Good God Almighty! Miss Maddie! What in—’
‘Shh!’ Madeleine hissed. But Mrs Plumley was too flabbergasted to heed her.
‘What in God’s holy name are you doing here! Your father’s home…’
‘I know,’ Madeleine whispered. ‘I don’t want him to see me until I am standing in front of him. How could he be so wicked as to withhold telling me about my mother, not even how seriously ill she was all that time?’
‘I’m sorry, miss… Mrs… I mean madam…’ Floundering, she lapsed into silence. Madeleine gave her a stiff smile.
>
‘It’s not your fault, Mrs Plumley. Where is he?’
‘In the library, miss… I mean…’ Floundering yet again, she gave up but stiffened. ‘Please don’t go antagonizing him, Miss Madeleine. I shall get in awful trouble for not warning him.’
But Madeleine was already through the door and up the few steps to the hall, making her way to the library, her mind saw-edged.
She found him sitting in his upright leather armchair as she burst in. His startled expression, seeing her there, was almost laughable but instantly changed to one of disbelief. ‘What in God’s name…’
Leaping up, face now livid with rage, his voice sounded strangled. ‘How dare you walk into my home? I’ll thank you to leave this minute!’
She stood her ground, her own anger dominating her. ‘I’m not leaving until—’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ he cut in, but she in her turn cut him short.
‘But I’ve plenty to say to you. I can’t believe anyone could be so heartless as to prevent their daughter knowing her own mother had passed away. It was evil and you are an evil man and I shall never forgive you. Never!’
‘What you choose to do is no concern of mine,’ he said slowly. Having regained control of himself, he was speaking now in level terms in the face of her rage, but Madeleine was trembling with anger and hatred.
‘I never once imagined it would,’ she raged. ‘Nor do I care if I never set eyes on you again. I just pray you die as my poor mother did and take a long time doing it. And I’ll be happy never to see you again. One thing I want you to know – I don’t care about your loathing of me. I’m happily married now and as far as I’m concerned you can rot away and I for one will as they say, dance on your grave.’
Her father remained calm before the torrent, lips curling in a sneer. ‘Happily married?’ he echoed. ‘An elderly, wealthy man, I hear. Turned gold-digger, eh? No more than I would have expected of such as you.’
