Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  It is with regret…

  She read the line again. Was this letter the crab to catch an apple? Did those people at the War Office think that by returning Quenton home she would start up production at the Glebe? Well, let them think! As a cold smile touched her tight mouth she folded the paper, setting it back into the envelope. Let them all think; but they would see it snow in hell before they saw the gates of that ironworks open again!

  *

  He had explained to Laban. Abel Preston walked around each room of the tiny two bedroomed house that was his home. Somehow they still seemed to hold the essence of the grandparents who had raised him.

  ‘I won’t be gone long, Gran.’ He touched a finger to a white Wedgwood jug given her on her wedding day. It had been the pride of her life and even now he seemed to hear her saying anxiously, ‘Now don’t you be a touching that!’

  She would have cried at his going but Grandad would have understood.

  He glanced at the clay pipe still in its place on the mantel above the fireplace. He had watched his grandfather make that pipe, fashioning it from clay dug from the garden, shaping bowl and stem with quick assured fingers, then letting an excited boy walk with him all the way to Wednesbury where for a penny it would be fired in the kilns of Potters Lane. Yes, his grandfather would have understood the need now in his grandson as he had always done; he would have known why, even though exempted from military service, he must join up; understood the feeling which had coursed inside him from the moment this war had been declared, a feeling which said he should be side by side with the men of Darlaston, fighting alongside men he had grown up with.

  Laban, too, had understood. Staring into the cold empty grate he saw again the old man’s face, the gentle nod of his grey head. There had been love in those tired eyes, the same love he had seen in Unity’s after she had recovered from the shock of his decision… but in Anne Corby’s eyes there had been nothing.

  ‘’Ave a meal wi’ us lad afore you goes, I know Unity would like that.’ Laban’s invitation to the house in Blockall had seemed the answer to a prayer, a request made to the Almighty that he be given one moment with Anne Corby, not a moment alone with her, that had been too much to ask – yet that too had been given. She had said virtually no word during the hour the meal had taken nor in the next after it, sitting with her eyes lowered. She was in pain, he had known that, but he was in pain too. He had longed for the touch of her hand, for one sweet taste of her lips but she had seen nothing of the torment inside him.

  ‘I’ll leave Anne to walk with you to the corner, her legs be younger’n mine.’

  Had Unity guessed the longing inside him, had one unguarded second given him away? He had glanced at her but she had already moved towards a table holding a number of leather belts and pouches ordered by the military. How would they manage, swamped with so much work and him leaving them? A flush of guilt had surged along his veins but that surge was little against the flood which had built higher each time he saw another of the men who were his friends go to fight while he remained behind. Enlisting was a remedy which would cure that particular malady but what of the other ailment? That which had him lie wakeful in the night? What would cure him of loving Anne Corby?

  She had walked with him to the corner of the street. He breathed deeply, memory painting her portrait on the canvas of his mind. Without a shawl to drape her head the breeze of evening had played with tendrils of hair, lifting and tossing chestnut strands, teasing them like silken veils across a pale, heart shaped face. She had looked so vulnerable it had been a test of strength not to take her in his arms, but as she had wished him goodbye her eyes had been like green oceans, empty and desolate. There had been nothing there for him.

  He had thought once… hoped – that evening they had walked home from Bentley Grange – hoped an old friendship re-lit might flare into something warmer; but with the death of her son Anne Corby had drawn deep into herself, shut herself behind a barrier of sorrow where he had no right to intrude. But he had no such barrier behind which to shelter, no invisible wall to keep the pain from his heart, the ache of loving Anne Corby; his only relief might lie on the battlefields of France.

  ‘It’s better this way, Gran,’ again he touched the elegant jug with the tip of one finger, ‘a bullet can’t hurt more than this.’

  Behind him the sound of a footstep caught his ear. One more moment and he would be gone. Smiling sadly at the clay pipe he whispered, ‘You should understand, Grandad, you always understood.’

  Still not turning towards that footstep he straightened the bag slung from his shoulder then laid it aside. The army would give him all he needed.

  ‘Would you put these things away for me, Mrs Davies?’ He had asked his next-door neighbour to care for the house during his absence; she was a kindly body and would keep it spick and span as his grandmother always had.

  ‘I would be glad to, Abel.’

  Across the morning the clock of St Lawrence church chimed, its call spreading faintly to the tiny house. It was time to go. With one last look at the clay pipe he turned towards the door.

  21

  She had woken from that familiar nightmare. Anne walked briskly along Church Street, her black coat brushed, her boots polished bright, the papers given her by Sir Corbett Foley carried in Unity’s leather bag. She had woken suddenly, her body bathed in the perspiration of fear. It had been the same dream, the same in which a man reached for her, a man with a bloodstained spike protruding from his throat. She had fled from him, urging a terrified horse across an endless white desert while foam flecks of the animal’s terror whipped her face like flakes of snow and she had called to her mother, called as grey slavering jaws snapped, closing over a gloved hand. Then she had been standing in a churchyard staring at a tiny coffin glistening white as a pearl. A black robed priest with orthodox Russian hat had raised one hand whilst Laban held a box of soil towards her. ‘Ashes to ashes,’ the words of the priest had stabbed at her as she had walked to the edge of that dark hole, but the soil she sprinkled fell not on a white coffin but on a plain deal one… plain except for a brass plate which read Abel Preston.

  The nightmare had held the torment which so often plagued her sleep, but last night it had contained a new element, a disturbing addition which at first she could not fathom; but as she had lain staring into the paling dawn the answer had come, the cause of the tearing pain splitting her heart was made plain: the reason was Abel Preston!

  He had come to the Hurley house last night, come to say a last goodbye before leaving to join his regiment. She had walked with him the few yards to the corner of the street then turned from him, locked in the blindness of her own selfish world, a world it had taken a nightmare to breach. It had shocked her as much as Unity’s angry words had shocked before, but the truth of it had come like sun after a storm. Abel Preston, the friend of her childhood, a dear friend, but he was more than that – she blinked hard against rising tears – Abel Preston was the man she loved… and now he was gone!

  *

  ‘I will write to let you know where I’ll be, Mrs Davies, supposing I’m allowed…’

  Abel’s words trailed into nothingness as he turned to face the figure stood in the doorway. Sunlight dancing on rich chestnut hair made it glimmer like dark fire around a face which could have been carved from ivory except that the mouth moved in a smile which snatched the breath from his lungs.

  ‘Anne!’ He stepped forward, his hands stretched towards her, then stopped. He must not give way now; the pain of holding those hands in his, of touching her only to be repulsed was one he could not bear. Scarcely controlling the tremor in his voice he forced a smile. ‘What brings you here… is something wrong… Unity, Laban?’

  Anne swallowed, nervous now she was here. What could she say to him, would he laugh at her, telling her not to harbour foolish notions come to her in the night? Maybe – maybe he loved some girl… was promised…

  ‘Anne, you have to tell me, is something wrong?�
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  The force of the realisation which had followed her nightmare bringing a flush to her cheeks, she lowered her gaze. She could not tell him the truth; it was enough that he was going into this dreadful war, she must not add any more to the worry of that, and Abel was a man who would feel that way by having to tell her he could not return her love.

  ‘There is nothing wrong, Abel.’ She raised her eyes, hoping desperately the emotion churning inside her did not reflect in them. ‘I only came to apologise—’

  ‘Apologise,’ he frowned, ‘for what?’

  ‘For my rudeness, not only last evening but for months past. I have ignored your kindness, your friendship. I ask you to forgive me and – and know my prayers are with you wherever you go.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ the frown melted, ‘you were in pain, I understood that; the loss of your son can’t have been easy to bear.’

  It had been hard, the hurt of it constant and deep… and should this war claim Abel! The quick slicing agony which had felt all too real in that nightmare struck her now, leaving her trembling. She could not live through that a second time.

  Make her go! Abel’s hands curled into tight defensive balls, his stomach was taut against the fierceness of his own emotions. Don’t let her stand there looking at him like that, the glitter of hidden tears silvering the deep green of her lovely eyes, that sweet mouth trembling. Oh Lord, let her leave now while he still had his senses!

  ‘Abel, I—’

  No, no he couldn’t listen any more! Turning away as she spoke his name he said abruptly, ‘I have to leave now. Please tell Laban and Unity I appreciate their friendship.’

  Unity and Laban! Anne’s insides shrank. He had no word for her.

  ‘Stay safe, Abel.’ She smiled at the strong back turned to her, adding the soft whisper, ‘Stay safe… for me.’

  *

  Everything was in order. Her mother’s Will leaving her property to her daughter had been duly attested. The old solicitor had spoken kindly, saying he remembered the wife of Jacob Corby, though he did not mention her choice of refusing to leave everything with him, choosing instead to take certain documents away with her. Anne, he hoped, would not follow the same practice.

  And she had not. That part of her business over, Anne walked quickly across the open square of the Bull Stake towards Butcroft.

  … look around you as you walks to and from the leather works, see the women with heads bowed, see the tears which streak their faces, hear the sobs they can’t hold back…

  Unity’s angry words rang in her mind as women, shrouded in dark shawls, walked past, their heads bowed beneath the weight of grief or fear. She had felt that same fear on leaving Abel, the fear of never seeing him again. He had not turned to her when she left that house but she had not needed to see his face, that was printed on her heart; Abel Preston would always be with her. The thought a measure of comfort against the ache of parting she entered the gates of the home which had once been her parents’, her knock no longer timid on the heavy door.

  A flush of indignity at having to open her own door rising to her sallow cheeks, Clara Mather silently cursed her departed cleaning woman. Helping the war effort, she was going to serve as a conductress on the trams. Conductress, pah! Going to become a whore more like; with a husband away with the forces the slut was making the most of her chances.

  ‘I want no…’ Snatching the door open, Clara paused in mid-sentence, then recovering quickly she snapped, ‘I have no time to talk with you!’

  A hand halting the already closing door, Anne’s stare was hard.

  ‘Then you had better find time for I have a deal to say to you.’

  There had been no ‘aunt’, no sign of the deference she was used to. Clara felt a faint frisson of alarm run along her spine. What had brought Jacob’s daughter to her door?

  ‘I don’t want to hear—’

  ‘I am sure you don’t,’ Anne cut her short, ‘but you are going to listen nonetheless.’

  ‘Not in here, there be no invit—’

  Hesitating just long enough to cast a withering glance over the hard face, Anne pushed the door wide.

  ‘I need no invitation to enter my own house.’

  There was no mistaking the tone in that voice or the implication in those words. Letting the door swing shut, Clara followed the black clad figure to the sitting room.

  ‘Like you, I have little time and even less wish to talk with yourself so I will make this brief…’ The girl had not taken a seat nor was there any hint of uncertainty in her stance. The frisson increased along Clara’s spine. Whatever had gone on in Anne Corby’s life since the death of her bastard did not bode good for Clara Mather. Why had she let it go this long? Irritation burned, devouring Clara’s alarm with its flame. Why had she not dealt the same with the mother as with the child?

  ‘Today I have taken steps to claim the inheritance my father left to me.’ Anne saw the shock rise to the hard eyes, the tautness of surprise draw the thin mouth into obscurity. ‘You may continue to live here in this house but from this moment I and I alone will administer the Glebe Metalworks. Neither you nor your son will set foot inside its doors, you will have no say in its running and no jurisdiction over its employees. I have arranged for a sum large enough to account for your personal needs,’ Anne’s head lifted in anticipation of the reaction to her next words, ‘as for Quenton, your son has lived on my father’s charity long enough, he will find no more with me.’

  ‘Charity!’ Clara exploded. ‘Charity! I’ve worked hard these fifteen years.’

  ‘In recognition of which you will be paid an annual sum,’ Anne answered calmly. ‘Quenton on the other hand has, so far as I can ascertain, done little at the Glebe except cause mischief.’

  ‘He kept the books!’

  ‘Ah yes, the books.’ Anne nodded, not missing the look which clearly said Clara regretted her outburst. ‘Book keeping was the one thing my father did teach me, and though I have given those at the works only a cursory inspection I could already detect discrepancies. It would appear my cousin kept not only the books but a considerable amount of the profits, of which, hopefully, there is sufficient left to provide himself with a home, for there will be no place for him at Butcroft House.’

  ‘You can’t deny him…’ Fury lighting flares in her usually cold eyes Clara stuttered her protest. ‘You can’t—’

  Meeting the red hot anger with the cool determination so suddenly found, Anne interrupted. ‘I can and I have. Choose now, abide by my decision and stay away from the Glebe or leave Butcroft House today.’

  ‘The Glebe is closed!’ Clara’s thin mouth sang its triumph. ‘It were closed the day my son were taken by the army and it will remain that way. Its workers, what were left after the conscription, have been sacked and, clever as you might think yourself, you can’t make iron without men.’

  ‘You did!’ Anne’s contempt was obvious in the retort. ‘You managed with boys fresh out of the classroom, paying them in pennies when you would have had to pay skilled men in pounds; tell me, was that your idea or Quenton’s? Did the money sweated from those boys also find its way into his pocket? You don’t need to answer for it shows in your face. But that too, is ended.’

  ‘You still won’t have the running of that works, the government be going to appoint a manager!’

  Hearing the spite in the reply, Anne was suddenly a six year old child again having a favoured toy snatched from her grasp. Her aunt had always disliked her, snapping and hurting on every possible occasion, lying to her mother as to the cause of a little girl’s tears, but Anne Corby was no longer that frightened child nor would there be any more tears. Holding the final dredges of that old unhappiness tight within herself Anne looked into the cold eyes that so many times had haunted childhood dreams, and this time she did not quiver.

  ‘In that case,’ she returned evenly, ‘I need have no worries as to making iron. I trust you will inform your son of my decision.’

&nbs
p; Where had she found the nerve? Walking away from Butcroft House, Anne could hardly still the tremble in her body. She would never have thought to have the courage to speak to her aunt as she had, to deliver ultimatums; but now that courage had been found and she was going to need it. So far only one aspect of her recent resolve had been dealt with… her father’s sister was one thing, running an iron and steel works was something altogether different.

  *

  ‘You be tekin’ a lot on.’ Laban Hurley had looked up from the soft pigskin he was stretching over a half worked saddle. ‘Metal foundries be no place for a wench, God knows they be no place for men neither, the bowels of hell be the only true description for such places’

  They had argued this with Unity in complete accord with her husband. ‘Whoever heard the like!’ she had said tartly on hearing Anne’s decision. ‘A young woman running a metal works, it be preposterous!’

  It was also preposterous that half the world could be at war, men dying like leaves in winter, but it was happening. Unity’s face had changed with that answer. She had recognised that the world was suddenly a different place to the one she was used to, that now for the first time women must be called upon to do many of the jobs formerly believed to be beyond their skills and capabilities. A half stitched rein in her hands she had looked from Anne to Laban but said no more.

  ‘You don’t have no idea what metal working be about.’ Laban had returned to the work in hand.

  ‘I had no idea what leather working was all about until you taught me.’

  ‘There be a difference, a saddle or any leather article don’t go involving the tipping of crucibles filled with molten metal; you don’t know the danger—’

  ‘But I know the need,’ Anne had interrupted with quiet determination. ‘I know our forces need the arms and equipment to fight this war, that we must not sit back and say we cannot supply them no matter what the cause. You are right, Laban, I don’t have the knowledge or the experience to run a foundry, so help me, please… tell me what to do.’