‘I was havin’ a lesson.’ He was sullen.
‘What sort o’ lesson?’ Even his speech, she realized, was changing.
‘Times tables.’ He flashed a blue glance from beneath long lashes. ‘I can say my times two right the way through.’
‘That right?’
The glimmer of an eager smile broke through. He nodded. ‘Mr Ralph says he’s never known anyone learn it so fast. D’you want to hear it?’
She held out for an injured moment longer, then grinned and patted the bed beside her.
He ran to her, laughing, anxious as a puppy to be friends, uncertain as a puppy as to how he might have offended. He scrambled on to the bed. ‘Once two is two,’ he chanted rapidly, ‘two twos are four—’
She watched him, watched the handsome tilt of his head, the play of light on the shining wheat-coloured curls. And, absurdly, she felt the sudden weakness of rising tears. Over a year now they had been together, through thick and thin, a year of constant companionship, of shared hardship, of sometimes desperate struggle and of high, comradely humour. Had he been flesh of her flesh, child of her body, she could not have cared more for him. She could not – would not! – lose him.
Not even to someone who could give him all the things that she could not?
‘Eleven twos are twenty-two. Twelve twos are twenty-four.’
‘Are they indeed? I never knew that,’ she said straight-faced. ‘So – what yer bin doin’ with yerself while I’ve bin layin’ ‘ere like Lady Muck?’
He swung his legs. ‘Oh, messing about.’
‘Who with?’
‘Alice and Sophie. An’ Charlie. An’ Siddie—’
‘Sounds like quite a gang?’
He grinned. ‘Mr Ralph calls us the Terrors.’
‘An’ what are they like, this Alice an’ Sophie, an’ Charlie an’ Siddie?’
He glanced at the door, one foot kicking restlessly at the other. ‘They’re all right. Alice an’ Sophie are sisters. Sophie’s pretty, but Alice is nicer.’ He slid from the bed, stood leaning, standing on one leg, fidgeting with the toe of the other foot on the leg of the bed. ‘Charlie’s all right. Siddie an’ me fight a lot.’
‘That right?’ She bit down words of quick irritation as the bed shook.
He looked at the door again.
‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘it’s bin a long time since we’ve ’eard from Jack Spratt an’ Able Cable, ‘asn’t it?’
He turned back to her, smiling, but his eyes were vague. ‘Mm.’
‘Think they’re back from their treasure island yet?’ These two mythical sailor lads, products of Sally’s fertile imagination, had seen them through many a long and sometimes hungry night as, giggling together on their narrow pallet, she had embroidered upon their more and more fantastic adventures. ‘Think they got away from them cannibals?’
‘Don’t know.’
She lay quite still, watching him. ‘An’ maybe don’t care a lot either?’ she asked quietly and evenly.
‘Aw, Sal – it isn’t that.’
‘Looks like it from ’ere.’ She turned her head on the pillow tiredly. ‘Go on, yer little tyke. Off yer go. Anyone’d think I’d got yer ’andcuffed.’
He hesitated, banging the leg of the bed again. ‘You sure?’
‘Course. But, Tobe—?’
He stopped in mid-flight, turned.
‘Come an’ see me a bit more often, eh? I miss you.’
He nodded, threw her a sparkling smile and was off, scampering to freedom. And to the wonderful Mr Ralph.
She closed her eyes miserably. Her face was hot and her arm ached. Unhappy, stupid tears rose behind her lids. She clenched herself fiercely against them, refusing to let them fall. If the damned child found this damned Bedford man so damned interesting then just at the moment there was nothing she could do about it and she might as well stop fretting. But just wait till she was up and about again. He’d come back to her then. Oh yes. Of course he would.
He came, as it happened, later that afternoon, dragging with him two little girls of perhaps five and seven years old, their close relationship clearly printed upon their faces although one, as Toby had said, was rather prettier than the other. Their reluctance to enter the sickroom was very obvious. Toby however was having none of it. ‘Come on!’ He hauled the smaller and prettier of the two girls unceremoniously behind him. ‘Sal – this is Sophie. That’s Alice.’
The girls hung back, ducking their brown heads.
‘’Ow d’yer do,’ Sally said gravely.
Toby gave her a brilliant smile, pleased with himself, certain that this gesture would heal the breach that had begun to open between them. He was by no means a stupid or an insensitive child, especially where Sally was concerned. He had seen in the thin, sickly looking face that afternoon how much he had hurt her by his unthinking neglect. This was his apology and his gift, and he knew she would know it. ‘I told ’em that you were the best story teller in the world,’ he said with total confidence.
‘Is that all?’
‘Alice likes stories best of all. She told me. It’s probably because she can’t do her times tables,’ he added, more than a little ungenerously but with another shining smile that somehow took the bite from the words.
Sally smiled at the taller of the two children. ‘What’s your favourite?’
‘Snow White and Rose Red.’ It was a whisper. The girl lifted shy eyes to Sally’s for a moment then looked away.
Sally frowned thoughtfully. ‘Snow White an’ Rose Red. Yes – I remember – the one about the two little sisters and the bear—’
‘Yes.’
‘And the ’orrible little dwarf—’
The child nodded, a little more confidently, ‘And the handsome prince,’ she whispered still shyly.
‘Oh, I should say! Mustn’t forget the ’andsome prince.’
‘Can you tell it to them?’ Toby asked, carefully disassociating himself from any such ghastly girlish rubbish. ‘I don’t s’pose Mr Ralph knows that one.’
Sally smiled at him, knowing well what he offered her, loving him for it, her earlier disappointment and unhappiness melting as he had known it would. ‘I ’spect I can, yes. ‘Ere – come an’ sit on the bed. But you’ll ’ave ter scarper if we ’ear the dragon lady comin’, all right?’
The two little girls, giggling at Sally’s irreverent description of Miss Reid, scrambled on to the bed.
‘It’s all right. I’ll keep watch.’ Gallantly self-important, Toby stationed himself beside the door.
‘Now – let’s see—’ Sally thought for a moment, ‘once upon a time there was this poor widder-woman who lived alone in a cottage in a deep dark wood, with only ’er two dear little girls for company—’
The smaller of the two girls, Sophie, snuggled a little closer and put her thumb into her mouth.
‘—but she was all right because these two little sisters were the nicest, kindest, sweetest little ’uns you’re ever likely to come across.’
The words, as always, came effortlessly to her tongue. Always there had been the stories, the magic shield between her and a childhood world even harsher than the one in which she now lived. Her mother’s had been the lap upon which she had learned these tales that had never left her, never lost their enchantment, her mother’s the melodic young voice that had woven a glittering spell about a cold and hungry little girl. Her mother. Lucy Smith. A soft and once-pretty young woman who had died before her twenty-fifth birthday of despair and malnutrition when the effort of keeping body and soul together had finally proved too much despite her ten-year-old daughter’s desperate pleas. Lucy Smith. Had that been her true name? Sally doubted it. A country parson’s daughter so far fallen from grace and with a bastard child in her belly when she was turned from her father’s house would hardly be likely to keep that father’s name. She had drifted to London, survived Sally’s birth, somehow laboured to keep herself and her child alive; and when that labour had seemed no longer necessar
y she had given up the fight and died, leaving her daughter as legacy a crown of shining brown hair, a store of fairy stories and a memory that grew fainter with each passing year of a tired, careworn face, gentle hands and a soft, well-modulated voice. As a child Sally had spoken as her mother spoke, and had suffered for it. Now she knew better.
‘—“Stupid thing!” shouted the dwarf. “Don’t stand there gawpin’! ’Elp me out of ’ere!”’
The heritage had certainly been better than none at all. The magic of the stories had never left her, nor had the recollection of those precious moments of comparative safety in a cruelly dangerous world, curled into her mother’s lap, her thumb in her mouth just as Sophie’s now was. When Toby had come she had presented the treasure to him, and he too had known its value, curled against her in that chill attic, the hard narrow bed a magic carpet to, fly Sinbad to his princess or Aladdin from his cave.
‘“Spare me, my great Lord Bear!” cried the wicked old dwarf, “an’ I’ll give you all my treasures!”’
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and Alice looked up, alarmed. But these were not the unmistakably brisk, efficient footsteps of Miss Reid. They were slower and quieter.
‘It’s Mr Ralph,’ Toby said, his whole face split in two by his smile.
‘Mr Ralph!’ Sophie slid from the bed and flew to the door to clasp the hand of the man who stood ruffling Toby’s hair, smiling pleasantly at Sally.
Sally did not smile back.
‘Please – I’ve interrupted – you were telling a story. Do go on. I only came to check that the Terrors weren’t bothering you. Doctor Will says you still need to rest.’
‘They aren’t bothering me.’
If he noticed the slight, dry emphasis on the first word of the sentence he gave no sign. His smile widened. Gently he disengaged his hand from Sophie’s and gave her a small push towards the bed. ‘Please – do go on.’ He walked to the chair and folded himself, ungainly, into it.
She couldn’t. She could not. The magic words had flown, her brain was like lead. She heard the harshness of her own voice, the ugliness of the ill-pronounced words. Sophie fidgeted. Toby had given up his guard and was leaning against Ralph Bedford’s knee, playing with his watch chain.
‘—An’ so the bear turned into a handsome prince and ’e married Snow White an’ Rose Red married ’is brother,’ Sally finished curtly.
‘—An’ they all lived happily ever after,’ Alice prompted.
‘Course they did.’
The silence was awkward, and quite deliberately Sally let it remain so.
‘Can we come again?’ Alice asked unexpectedly.
‘If yer like.’
‘Do you know any more stories?’
‘Tons.’
‘Thousands,’ Toby said, still playing with the gold watch chain, ‘millions.’
‘Bet she doesn’t,’ pragmatic Sophie said. ‘Not millions.’
‘Bet she does!’
Ralph held up his hands, laughing. ‘All right, all right, enough’s enough. Off you go. It’s teatime. And Miss Smith is supposed to be resting.’
The children tumbled to the door. Toby stopped, looked back expectantly, grinning.
‘Thanks, Tobe.’
His smile widened, and then he was gone. Ralph remained sitting, as always awkwardly, upon the chair, elbows on knees, large hands clasped loosely together. ‘He’s a very special young man, your Toby.’
‘I’d noticed.’ She made no effort to hide her sullen hostility. She would not look at him.
‘Miss Smith,’ Ralph said gently, ‘I really feel that we should talk.’
She lifted her head, her thin face harsh, the narrow eyes perilous. ‘What about?’
He ploughed on. ‘About Toby. Please – you have to believe that we aren’t trying to take him away from you.’
She glared at him for a moment, but the effort of defiance in her weakened state was simply too much. Abruptly she laid back on to the pillows and closed her eyes. ‘Yer could ’a fooled me,’ she said very quietly.
‘No. Please – listen.’ Ralph’s voice was suddenly determined. He had outfaced such stubborn and he sometimes suspected deliberate misconstruction of his intentions and motives before: and where the welfare of a child was concerned he knew that he could be every bit as tenacious as this tough, tired girl who lay now, eyes and face closed against him, her long bony hands clenched upon the counterpane, her skin as white as the bleached linen in which she lay. ‘Yes, I make no bones about it, I’d like to keep Toby here. Miss Smith, the lad’s safe here. He’s happy. He’s learning – I’ve never known a child with a quicker or more receptive brain. And he’s removed from temptation.’
They both knew what he meant. Sally would not ask how he had come to know the child so quickly and so well. ‘’E’s all right with me.’
‘Of course he is.’ Ralph smiled a little. ‘And that’s why I’m asking you to consider staying too.’ He held up his hand as her eyes flew open and she opened her mouth. ‘Wait – please wait. For a long time we’ve needed another pair of hands here at the home. Kate isn’t very good with the children and they run rings around Bron. You could be the very one we’re looking for.’
She was shaking her head. ‘No.’
He spread big, exasperated hands, ‘But—’
‘No!’
He straightened, stood awkwardly. ‘Miss Smith—’
‘Mr Bedford—!’ she interrupted, harshly, the distinctive voice very low and very dangerous, ‘From where you stand, with your ordered life, your wonderful convictions an’ your full belly I might not look much. But let me tell you you’re wrong. I just got to get better, that’s all. Then we’ll get out of your way an’ won’t bother you no more, just a few more days an’ we’ll be off. With many thanks, of course. An’ I mean that. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve done for me, an’ for Toby. I’m not stupid, an’ whatever it seems I’m not ungrateful. But we don’t need your charity, Mr Bedford. We’ve got an ’ome, an’ we’ve got a life of our own. An’ I’ll thank you, as soon as I’m strong enough, to let us get on an’ live it. I won’t lose ’im, Mr Bedford – you ’ear me? – I won’t. Not to you. Not to no one. ’E’s all I’ve got. An’ I’m all ’e’s got. An’ that’s enough for us. Like I said – we don’t need your charity.’
‘Please! You misunderstand entirely!’
‘No,’ she said flatly, ‘I don’t. I understand that you think you’re actin’ for the best. What you ’ave to understand, Mr Bedford, is that whatever you might believe you an’ your like don’t necessarily know what’s best for me an’ mine. Leave us alone, Mr Bedford. Just leave us alone.’ She closed her eyes again, suddenly exhausted. There were two bright, angry-looking patches upon her cheeks.
There was a long, careful silence. Then she heard him move quietly towards the door. She heard him take breath once, as if he were about to speak and she steeled herself wearily against argument. But, ‘Toby put us in touch with a Miss Josie Dickson,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s coming to visit you this evening. Do you feel strong enough?’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘Josie?’
He nodded.
Weak and infuriating tears rose again. She blinked them furiously away. ‘Yes. I’d like to see Josie.’
* * *
Toby, beaming, brought Josie to her as the long warm August evening began, with the air of a conjurer producing a particularly spectacular rabbit out of a hat. Sally, her spirits lifted at the prospect of the visit, had convinced herself that she felt better. When Miss Reid had bustled brusquely in to tidy the room and supervise the patient’s supper she had not mentioned that she still felt too warm for comfort and that her arm throbbed with a faint but regular pulse of pain that had not been evident that morning.
‘Sally – oh, Sally – it’s so lovely to see you!’ Josie flew across the room, stopped just short of flinging herself upon her friend and bent to kiss her cheek instead. ‘We’ve been frantic with worry, Sal! You j
ust disappeared!’
‘I was comin’ to you. But – I was taken sick at the soup kitchen. Doctor Ben was there. ’E sent me ’ere.’
‘And a jolly good job he did! What happened? What’s wrong? And how are you feeling now?’
With economy Sally told the story, inventing nothing, simply leaving out those things that might bring questions awkward for the Pattens, to whom for all her present resentments she suspected she owed her life. She and Jackie had quarrelled. Jackie had got drunk and come after her with a knife. The wound had festered. Here she was.
‘But why didn’t you come to us?’
‘I told you – I was comin’.’
‘Two weeks after it happened!’
Sally shrugged and grinned a little, apologetically. ‘Can’t rush these things.’
‘Sally Smith, you’re impossible!’
‘There’s more than you around to think that. Now – tell me what’s bin ’appenin’ in the wide world. The old dragon said you couldn’t stay too long, so don’t let’s waste time. ’Ow’s the family?’
‘They’re well. Dad’s back’s playing him up a bit again – oh, and Wally broke a finger, but it’s healing. Dan sends his love. He wants to know can he come to visit you?’
‘No.’ The word was far too hasty. Sally flushed a little. ‘Er – no. They don’t like too many people traipsing in an’ out. Yer can’t blame them really.’
‘No. Of course not. He’ll understand. Anyway – he’ll see plenty of you when you come home.’
Sally looked at her blankly. ‘Home?’
‘To us. Of course. Where else were you thinking of going? You said yourself you were coming to us.’
‘That was when I was sick. When I get out of ’ere I’ll be better. Tobe an’ I can go on ’ome an’ I’ll get a job.’ She stopped. ‘What the ’ell’s the matter with you two?’ she asked suspiciously.
Tomorrow, Jerusalem Page 12
