Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  The memory vivid and alive in his mind was reinforced by the stab of pain shooting now through his thigh. A shot of brandy would help but there was none in the house, that much he had found out during his mother’s shopping trips. He had gone through each room of this dreary place but was careful to be back in his bed before she returned. Lord! He winced again, a fresh spasm catching the breath between his teeth. It was worse here now than before he was called up, something to do with Anne Corby taking over Glebe Metalworks: but whoever heard of a woman running an iron foundry? Frowning, he touched a hand to his throbbing leg. Once he deemed it near enough the finish of this war and himself safe from recall to the regiment he would see to his cousin; there wouldn’t be a manufacturer or iron ore supplier anywhere in the country would deal with her. She would have to return management of the place to him or go under.

  Pain like the swift thrust of a blade bringing a film of sweat to his brow, he threw off the bedcovers. There had to be some sort of pain relief in the house, an Aspro tablet or a Beecham’s Powder, anything which would dull this blasted pain; he might have thought twice before using that revolver had he realised this was the result. But no, he wouldn’t have done – clutching at the bedside table he waited for the sharpness of the pain to subside – what would have been his chances of finding another nancy boy officer? None as high as the chance of being sent over the top, and that was a chance too many.

  Moving gingerly, avoiding putting his full weight on his injured leg, he walked slowly from the room. If he used his head, let no one see him walk, he could make this injury see out the rest of this bloody war with him in no danger of taking any more part in it.

  There was no medicine in any downstairs room, his earlier searches for brandy had already shown that. The bathroom? It was his best bet. But the spartan little room which had been his mother’s pride since it was converted to hold a cast iron bath and indoor privy boasted no more than the essentials of soap, towels, flannel and paper. Christ! Did his mother think an Aspro tablet would sabotage her household budget!

  Irritation heightened by a short flare of pain he slammed a fist against the well polished door. Polish… Oh, his mother made sure the house carried a good supply of that, but a bloody painkiller!

  From the hall below the chime of a long-case clock brought his brain under control. Wherever he was to look he must do it quickly, his mother had never been a woman who spent two minutes getting a job done when one minute did well enough.

  His mother… of course! He turned towards the room she had moved into the moment her brother had vacated the house. If Clara Mather had anything she wanted nobody else to have benefit of it would be somewhere in her own bedroom.

  Moving as quickly as the stiffness in his thigh permitted he entered his mother’s room, his eye moving rapidly over the meticulous neatness of dressing table and mantel. Nothing! The word hissed in his brain. But then had he really expected there to be anything which might possibly hint at her having a weakness of any sort, even a bloody headache!

  He had half turned when a stray beam of light from the landing darted across the bed, glinting on something standing on the night table, something which gleamed with an interesting brilliance.

  A bauble? Gem he had not known about? Something saleable?

  Curiosity heavily tinged with greed temporarily relieving the ache of his thigh, he moved to the table.

  ‘A bottle!’ He spat the word aloud. He should have known his mother would not leave anything worth a farthing lying where another might see it. Tight fisted…! Clara Mather’s grip on anything was tighter than a Jew’s arse in a market, too mean to fart ’cos it brought no profit. So what was this?

  Taking the small, reeded, green glass bottle in his hand he uncorked it. Smelled of nothing he recognised. He sniffed again. Nothing… but that was not surprising seeing his mother had never believed in dosing him with medicines. So what was it for? He held the bottle to the light. Whatever its use there wasn’t a great deal of it left. It could only be a curative for pain of some sort his mother did not speak of… women’s pains… of course, that was it. Clara might act like some female gorilla but the fact remained she was a woman with the same monthly course as all the rest, and that was likely to be a source of discomfort. Touching the bottle to his lips he took a tentative sip. Honey, he traced his tongue over where the bottle had touched. Quite a pleasant taste compared to some of the stuff shoved at him in that field hospital, and if it would stop this damned ache…!

  Holding the bottle over his open mouth he tipped the contents, shaking the last dregs onto his tongue before swallowing. Should he search the drawers and wardrobe, make certain there was nothing hidden which he could turn to his own use, maybe sell once he was out and about? He might not get so favourable a chance again. Taking a step towards the tall chest of drawers he paused. Lord, that women’s cure was strong stuff! Glancing towards the light filtering in from the landing he blinked as it danced. P’raps he should forget a search, p’raps he should… he should… The thought slipped away into oblivion, the light swayed and danced, his wide open eyes following… following into blackness.

  *

  ‘I thinks you should come home along of me.’ Unity Hurley threw the woollen shawl about her shoulders, tying the corners together in a knot beneath her breasts.

  ‘I have to look in on Mr Butler, I know he was worried the consignment of iron ore for next week’s smelting would not come in time.’

  ‘Then let him go chase after it, you already be half the size you was six months gone and Lord knows you was no thicker through than a kipper between the eyes then. I tells you, wench, you has to let up or you’ll be along of St Lawrence pushing up the daisies!’

  ‘I’m well enough.’ Anne smiled. ‘You fuss too much.’

  ‘Ar, and you work too much!’ Unity’s answer was sharp as she reached for a bundle of leather strips cut for military satchel straps.

  Anne eyed the leather strips skived and thinned that day by girls closely supervised by Unity. ‘I’m not alone in that,’ she observed, ‘how many of those will find their way into Unity Hurley’s house tonight, I wonder?’

  ‘Nobbut a couple, I like my fingers busy after supper.’ Turning quickly from Anne’s knowing smile she called to the last of the girls giggling and chattering as they wrapped themselves in shawls.

  ‘Now you wenches be sure and keep together, you knows what them there Zeppelins be capable of for you’ve all seen in the newspapers the damage done by their wicked bombs along o’ Wednesbury an’ Walsall, and God knows they could come again at any time.’

  ‘But Mrs Hurley, I was going to go to the Picturedrome, it be showing a Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks picture—’

  ‘I don’t care if it be showin’ pictures of King George and Queen Mary theirselves!’ Unity snapped. ‘You get yourself home to your mother, Polly Gibbons, and that goes for the rest of you. If I finds either one of you have been anywhere near Crescent Road or any other road your house don’t be in then it’s Unity Hurley you’ll be answering to, and just to make sure I’ll be calling in on Sarah Gibbons and one or two others afore I goes home.’

  Hands on hips she stared at the crestfallen Polly and the girl did not dare press her desires further but muttered beneath her breath as she left with the others.

  ‘Picture palace indeed!’ Unity sniffed. ‘What be young wenches coming to!’

  Maybe one day a girl might be able to visit the new picture houses without first asking permission of her parents. It was a risqué thought and one Anne kept to herself.

  ‘They are young—’

  ‘Exactly!’ Unity rounded. ‘Too young to be going visitin’ places like picture palaces, and on their own…! I never heard the like.’

  Picking up her own bundle of strips already skived and ready for making into straps for back packs, holsters, cross belts for officers or the thousand and one other uses they were put to and the stitching of which could be put to outworkers, women unable
for whatever reason to take up employment at Fallings Heath, Anne watched the older woman extinguish the lamps.

  ‘I will deliver these to the women and bring the finished ones home for Laban to take on to the Regency works in the morning.’

  She waited while Unity locked the door behind them. The girls had already disappeared but in the darkness ahead their peals of laughter echoed.

  ‘I’d still be happier should you stay alongside of me,’ Unity said as they emerged from Cook Street, turning left at Walsall Road.

  Anne knew it was consideration for her welfare had Unity apprehensive but what could possibly happen? Yes, alright, the Zeppelins might well return with more bombs, but they could not live their lives afraid to go anywhere because of that; this war could not be fought hiding away at home, the men at the front needed all the equipment that could be made and it would not be much if folk were frightened of their own shadows. Now were it not that Sir Corbett had destroyed that amulet, hidden even the ashes it left where they would never be found, maybe Unity may have had cause for unease; but it was gone for ever, it could never harm herself or anyone ever again.

  Poor Sir Corbett! Anne walked on in silence. Who would have guessed? True, he had looked unwell the night he had given her those papers but he had assured her his doctor had said he was on the mend. But he had not been on the mend, instead he had suffered a major heart attack, dying immediately. ‘Doctors!’ Unity had scorned when they had heard the news. ‘They think they knows it all but summat like this proves they don’t.’

  ‘Well, if you be adamant you wants to go along of that foundry then this be where we parts company.’ Unity halted but her quick glance moved busily over the scene around her. The Bull Stake was almost in darkness, its tall gas lamps unlit, shop windows shaded to a dim pinprick of light. Bloody Zeppelins, she thought bitterly, take the light from folks’ lives every which way you looks; and them folk mostly women and girls, hardly a man left to be seen. Lord, what would be the true cost of this war!

  ‘Give them strips here to me.’ She reached for Anne’s bundle of leather strips, taking them from her arms without waiting for an answer. ‘I have to pass them houses to get to me own, it’ll do me no hurt to drop these in on the way.’

  And give you the perfect opportunity to check the girls have arrived home safely. It was no wonder women called at Fallings Heath almost daily, wanting employment for their daughters. She heard again the phrase she so often heard those mothers speak: Unity Hurley takes the same care of wenches as does their own kin. And it was true. Anne hid her smile. Not one girl was allowed to walk home alone.

  ‘Now you remember and ask Aaron Butler to walk with you once your business be finished, Blockall don’t he a hundred miles from where he lives.’

  It had taken more than one assurance before Unity had been satisfied, but the concern for her well being was genuine. Yes, Unity and Laban both loved her… but Abel Preston, there was no love in him for Anne Corby. What had driven her to go to his home that morning? She had thought he would already have left so where was her reason? Anne walked on towards Butcroft, oblivious of the darkness and its quietly moving shadows. What had she told herself? Not the truth; not that she had gone to that house hoping to find some intrinsic echo, some intangible essence of him, something she could hold deep in her soul. She had found that, but also she had found a cool unsmiling man, a man with doubt and question in his eyes… a man with no feeling of love for Anne Corby.

  23

  Clara Mather let herself into the house then stood listening at the foot of the stairs. All was quiet. Was Quenton asleep? She would make him cocoa anyway, take it up to him and if he were sleeping she would drink it herself.

  Hanging her everyday coat and bonnet in the ornate oak hall cupboard she went briskly to the kitchen warmed by a fire still bright from the stoking of half a bucket of coal thrown on before she had left a couple of hours before. She had not intended to take so long, after all Quenton was still tied to his bed, but it had proved a fruitful two hours.

  Reaching the tin of Bourneville Cocoa from the pantry she spooned rich smelling powder into a large cup and, together with two heaped spoons of sugar and a little milk, mixed it to a creamy brown paste. She had gone to the Glebe Works. Pouring a cupful of milk into a small, cast iron pan she set it to boil over the fire. Aaron Butler had been cagey, evading wherever possible giving a direct answer to her questions, but then she had said it was Quenton wished to speak with his cousin, Quenton who could not move from his bed from the wound he had sustained fighting for his country and Aaron Butler had wavered. He could make no appointments nor no promises on behalf of Miss Corby, but ‘’Erself alliz calls in afore the works closes for the night; I’ll tell ’er of this visit but that be all I can do.’

  The milk having come to the boil Clara stirred it into the cup. She had found out what she wanted to know. With the Glebe closed for the night, there would be no one there except perhaps for a watchman who no doubt would be too sleepy or too drunk to see what went on around him. I will run the Glebe. Clara set the cup on a tray. I alone will be responsible. A smile disturbing the tight line of her thin mouth Clara mounted the stairs. Her niece, Jacob’s daughter, had taken over management of the iron works; but now that management was about to end!

  *

  Clara watched the cocoa stain spread across the carpet, reaching like some dark unearthly finger towards the figure sprawled face down just beyond the bed.

  ‘Quenton!’ It was a half scream as she dropped to his side, a half scream that became a howl as the figure lay unmoving beneath her hands.

  Quenton. Crouched over the still form she cried his name again and again until at last reality forced its way into her brain. Quenton, her son; the only person in the world she had ever cared for, the one she had worked and schemed for, her son was dead. But how… and why had he dragged himself to her bedroom? Had he called to her and received no answer, had that brought him crawling to this room seeking help?

  ‘I didn’t mean to stay away so long,’ she whispered against pale, sand coloured hair, ‘I only went for your sake, everything I do is for your sake… the Glebe was yours, she had no right to take it, I killed her child so it could never come to stand in your path and tonight I found a way to kill her; tonight every obstacle would have been removed… Quenton,’ it came wrapped in a series of sobs, ‘Quenton, my love, my son.’

  How long she crouched there Clara did not know but, her joints stiff, she sat up on her haunches then rolled the cold body onto its back, lifting the shoulders and head, rocking him as she might a fretful child. It was the movement that sent the arm falling from her lap; the movement which showed the right hand with fingers clenched about some object almost hidden in the broad palm: an object which glittered green in the light from the hall.

  The bottle! Clara stared at the phial she had forced the cold hand to release. How…! Then she remembered. She had taken it from the bag to see how much of the wolfsbane remained, then left it beside her bed. There had been no call to replace it in its hiding place since there was no longer any cleaning woman to go peering where she wasn’t wanted. But Quenton had found it and drunk it. Had he thought it to be some sort of medicine, a sedative prescribed by a doctor or chemist which might dull his pain long enough for him to fall asleep? He could not have known the true contents, that they would bring the sleep from which there was no awakening.

  Letting the lifeless figure rest again on the floor she stared at the pale face. This was the fault of that slut, that whore, the child of her oh-so-righteous brother, him spouting the Bible at all and sundry while his own daughter played her dirty little games with any passing man. ‘It was her killed you,’ Clara touched the cold face. ‘It was her, if she hadn’t come back… if she had died like the other two… But she will…’ Her head lifting, eyes blazing a maniacal glint matching the gleam of reeded glass held in her hand, she laughed, a short, almost howling laugh which echoed in the silent house. ‘You won’t be alon
e, my son, the trollop will go with you. You must have a companion, you must have your cousin; you won’t be the only one the Angel of Death comes for this night. Anne Corby too, will look into his face, feel his icy touch; she too will ride in his shadow.’

  ’Erself alliz calls in afore the works closes for the night…

  Aaron Butler’s words rose like a hymn in her brain. Her head jerking upwards she laughed again, a high pitched, demented screech of a laugh. It was her killed Quenton! Clara’s mouth worked spasmodically. Her… Jacob’s whore of a daughter! But Quenton must not go lonely into the grave.

  Suddenly calm, the lunatic gleam fading to leave her eyes cold and hard, Clara glanced at the face of the figure lying on the floor at her knees. ‘Rest easy, my son,’ she whispered, ‘Anne Corby will never have this house nor will she be mistress of the Glebe after this night. Your mother will see to that as she has always seen to everything.’ Stroking the dead face once she leaned to kiss the marbling lips then climbed stiffly to her feet. First she must get rid of that bottle. Taking the cork from the table she went from the room.

  *

  He had not asked would she write to him. Head bent against rain beginning to fall in large splattering drops, Anne waited for the tram to rattle past then hurried across the Bull Stake, following in the vehicle’s wake until turning right into Mill Street. The Glebe Works was the sprawling building a little over halfway along. ‘You should write the lad a line.’ Unity had said those words several times since Abel Preston’s leaving, but how could she? How could a girl write to a man who had not asked she do so? It – it was too forward. Abel would think her cheap, a girl with no morals, the type to conceive a bastard child!

  She had thought… hoped… he would write her a note, just a few brief lines to say he was well but that he missed… Her? Brushing a hand over her cheeks she wiped away raindrops mixed with tears. That had been like wishing for the moon, and just as useless. Abel Preston would miss his home, he would miss the quiet company of Laban, there were many things he might miss but Anne Corby was not among them. She prayed for his safety. Stood whenever she could beside the tiny grave which held her child she prayed for them both. Joshua and Abel, two loves of her life and both of them gone.