A Daughter's Ruin

by Kitty Neale

He briefly wondered if he should take Constance, but then decided against it. If this was to be his wife’s last hour on this earth, he wanted it to be a peaceful one.

  Thankfully, the telephone hadn’t disturbed his daughter and as quietly as possible Charles left the house. The streets were virtually empty as he drove to the hospital, only to be told when he arrived at his wife’s room that Hettie had slipped into a coma. He was warned that she might not last the night.

  Charles sat beside her, and only fifty minutes later she died. Though he had been told to expect this, his throat felt constricted as he fought tears.

  ‘She’s at peace now,’ a nurse said softly.

  He was only able to nod, but when he looked at Hettie he saw that she did look at peace and he could glimpse the woman she once was before alcohol and bitterness took over. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to croak to the nurse.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Once again Charles was only able to nod, and on the drive home he forced his mind to the practicalities. He’d have to make arrangements for Hettie’s funeral, but thankfully a lot of that could be placed in a funeral director’s hands. It would be a small affair, and then another thought struck him. Constance was to marry Albert Jones on the fourth of January, in under two weeks, and he didn’t want that postponed. He wanted his pregnant daughter off his hands and married and there was only one way to ensure that. He’d arrange the funeral for after the marriage, and though he would allow Constance to attend, her scoundrel of a husband would not be welcome.

  Charles arrived home exhausted and went straight back to bed. Sleep was impossible, though, as memories of his marriage rose to the surface. In the early days there had been a few good times, but even then he had experienced Hettie’s coldness in bed. She had been the perfect wife in other ways; the house ran faultlessly and she had been charming when they entertained guests. Yet as the years went by it became a façade, their marriage in name only, so was it any wonder he had taken a mistress?

  It was Jessica on Charles’s mind now, not his wife, as he at last drifted into sleep.

  Constance came downstairs on Friday morning to find her father already up and standing in the drawing room doorway. She frowned. He looked dreadful, grey and tired and somehow older.

  ‘Constance, come and sit down.’

  Instantly alert, she asked, ‘Why? What is it? Is it Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Now sit down.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit down. Just tell me.’

  ‘Very well. I’m afraid your mother died in the early hours of this morning.’

  Constance sat then, almost fell onto a chair, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I wanted to see her, to tell her how sorry I am, but it’s too late now.’

  ‘Your mother was in a coma so I doubt she’d have heard you.’

  ‘She might have. I read somewhere that hearing is the last thing to go,’ Constance cried.

  ‘I wanted her ending to be a peaceful one, and I doubt hearing you bleating in her ear would have made that possible. Now I’m going to my study to make arrangements for the funeral. I’ll eat my breakfast in there so tell Janet to bring me a tea tray with some toast and marmalade.’

  Constance wiped her eyes, blinking more tears away as she said, ‘I … I’ll talk to Albie, tell him that the wedding will have to be postponed.’

  ‘You will do no such thing. I’ll arrange the funeral for after your wedding, which will go ahead as planned.’

  ‘But, Daddy, you can’t expect me to marry Albie before my mother’s funeral.’

  ‘I can, Constance, and I do. I want you married and out of my house. I’ll allow you to attend your mother’s funeral, alone. It will be the last time I want to set eyes on you,’ and with that he walked out of the room.

  Constance was left sobbing, crushed. She knew that with Christmas so close, it would never be the same again for her. Instead, it would always be a reminder of her mother’s death. When Janet came nervously into the room, her sympathy was too much. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Constance. I couldn’t help overhearing that your mother has passed away.’

  With a sob Constance jumped to her feet, ran to get a coat and fled. She grabbed her bicycle and pedalled furiously until she reached her haven.

  In the light of what Constance told her, Ethel thought their bright Christmas decorations and twinkling fairy lights on the tree seemed garish and inappropriate. She closed her eyes, searching for words, and said, ‘Now then, come on, dry those tears. If you keep crying like this you’ll make yourself ill.’

  ‘Oh, Ethel. It’s monstrous. How can I marry Albie knowing that a few days later, or even less, I’ll be attending my mother’s funeral?’

  ‘Well, love, I must admit, it’s going to be hard for you, but if your father insists on it, I don’t think you’ve any choice.’

  Sniffing and snuffling, blowing her nose into her handkerchief, Constance sounded muffled, but Ethel caught her words. ‘Now you listen to me, my girl. You did not cause your mother’s stroke. All right, she overheard you telling me about the baby, but the clot must have already been there, travelling to her brain.’

  ‘Clot?’

  ‘Yes, love. I should have said something at the time, but I’m sure it’s a blood clot that causes a stroke, not a shock.’

  Constance stared at Ethel, wide eyes that were wet with tears, but showing a glimmer of hope. ‘So … so I didn’t cause it.’

  ‘No, darlin’. Now come on, dry those eyes.’

  ‘So … so why is my father being so cruel? Why won’t he let me postpone the wedding?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘He … he said he just wants me married and out of his house.’

  ‘It could be that he’s ashamed you’re pregnant with Albie’s baby.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

  ‘Albie may be working-class, but you’ll find he’s kind, and caring. He used to worry so much about my swollen legs and was always nagging me to retire. I wish he could see me now, me and Mary in our own little place and my legs improving every day.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. He took me to meet Dora and I … I like her.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Ethel said and meant it. It was going to be hard enough for Constance to get used to living in her daughter’s tiny terrace, but if she and Dora got on it would make it a bit easier.

  ‘My father said that I can go to my mother’s funeral, but without Albie.’

  Ethel bristled. Mr Burton Blake was being unnecessarily cruel to Constance by shunning Albie, but there’d be another Jones at the funeral. She would go, even if she had to slip in and sit on a pew at the back. She’d be there if Constance needed her, whether Mr Burton Blake liked it or not.

  Chapter 19

  January 1965

  From the day the plane had landed at the airport, Daisy had fallen in love with Spain. They had left a cold day in London behind and arrived to blue sky and, though it was winter, to sunshine too.

  And now, on Saturday the fourth of January, she still felt the same as she looked around the bar. It hadn’t needed much refurbishment, just a lick of paint, and though there was a lot of paperwork and officialdom, they hoped to open in under a month.

  She had found it strange that the Spanish people didn’t celebrate Christmas on the twenty-fifth of December, but instead they had a festival called the Three Kings and exchanged presents on the sixth of January. They’d been told to expect festivities and parades and that was something else Daisy was looking forward to.

  ‘Just wait ’til the summer months,’ Jamie Grant had said with a grin as he worked at replacing the awnings. ‘It gets scorching hot then and the streets will be alive with holidaymakers. It’s when we’ll make our biggest profit.’

  ‘I’m just glad we managed to find an English-speaking lawyer to guide us through all the paperwork,’ Eric said. ‘I just thought we’d buy this bar, move in and start work.’

  ‘Yeah, me to
o, but we’re getting there. We’ll have to learn a lot more of the lingo too in case we get Spanish customers.’

  ‘Freddy from the bar round the corner said he gets very few,’ Eric told him.

  ‘Do you want me to make a start on the menus?’ Daisy asked. They’d decided to offer simple snacks, food to draw in the punters along with the alcohol.

  ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ Jamie said. ‘There’s a list of wholesale prices you can look at. And when you work out what to charge for something like egg and chips, remember to include the time it takes to prepare and cook the meal.’

  ‘Will do,’ Daisy said and, taking a chair at the bar, she began the calculations. It felt good to be doing something useful, sort of earning her keep, and she felt a part of this venture. They had started off living in a hotel, but very soon afterwards they had found a lovely apartment to rent, with two bedrooms, so they insisted that Jamie move in too. He had balked at first, but with his bedroom at one end of the flat and theirs at the other, privacy wasn’t an issue, so he’d given in.

  ‘There isn’t much English food available and what there is is way overpriced,’ Daisy said, her head to one side as she was struck by a thought. ‘I’ve got an idea though.’

  ‘Spit it out then,’ Eric urged.

  ‘We want food that’s quick to prepare, yet fresh, so how about an omelette bar? They’re easy to knock up and we can offer chips to go with them.’

  Eric frowned as he thought about this, but Jamie grinned widely. ‘Daisy, you’re a genius.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, she is,’ Eric agreed as he walked to her side. ‘What with getting this place up and running and preparing food, Lord knows when we’ll get a chance to tie the knot.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re as good as married and it’s only a bit of paper.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so, but one day I intend to make you Mrs Daisy Dobson.’

  Daisy smiled. After a nightmarish childhood, she’d never been this happy in her life before. She didn’t want to return to England again, not even to get married. Spain was her home now and everything in her past was left behind.

  On that same day in England, the morning of Constance’s wedding, it was wet and cold. The weather matched her mood, and she was dressed sombrely too, in a dark grey suit accessorised with black shoes, bag and hat. How could she wear bright colours when her mother’s funeral was going to take place in three days? She didn’t want flowers either, neither a bouquet nor a buttonhole.

  She picked up her suitcases, carried them downstairs and placed them in the hall by the street door. Albie would be here to pick her up soon, and she was ready – glad to leave this house where her father had made it clear she wasn’t wanted. Albie’s mother had been marvellous, though, kind and caring when she went to tell them her dreadful news, and even Albie had been nice, though his sympathetic hug had been brief.

  ‘You ready then?’ Albie asked when she opened the door to him.

  ‘Yes,’ she told him, swallowing hard.

  ‘I need to have a word with your dad before we leave.’

  ‘I know. He’s in his study,’ she said, standing aside to let Albie in. He looked nice, his suit grey too.

  ‘We’re a matching pair,’ he said, smiling as he took in her appearance.

  Constance appreciated that he was trying to lighten the atmosphere, but she knew he wanted to see her father for only one thing – to get the money he’d been promised – and she felt sick inside that Albie had to be bribed to marry her. She didn’t go into the study with him, and when the door opened shortly after, Albie came out alone. There was no sign of her father, no indication that he was at least going to say goodbye, but instead of tears Constance hardened her heart against him. If he no longer wanted her as a daughter, she no longer wanted him as a father, and she would never, ever speak to him again.

  ‘Right, the meter’s running so let’s get a move on,’ Albie urged as he grabbed her cases.

  Constance didn’t look back as she stepped outside to see that Dora was waiting in the taxi with their neighbour Ivy Nelson, who was to be the second witness, sitting beside her. She climbed in next to them while Albie stowed the cases and then pulled down a seat opposite. ‘Right, we’re off,’ he said cheerily.

  Constance knew that it wasn’t the thought of marrying her that was making Albie smile. It was the cheque she’d seen him tuck into his inside pocket as he’d left her father’s study. She knew he hadn’t found a job yet, but hoped that he was seeking one. Two thousand pounds seemed like a lot of money, but they also needed a lot of things for the baby, and to pay his mother for their keep.

  ‘How are you doing, love?’ Dora asked, grasping her hand.

  ‘I’m all right, but with my mother’s funeral in three days, I can’t feel happy.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, and no one would expect you to,’ Dora assured her.

  ‘With the way you’re dressed you look like you’re going to the funeral today,’ Albie commented. ‘You could have at least put a bit of lippie on.’

  Constance tightened her lips. After what she’d been through with her father, she wasn’t going to let Albie walk all over her and that was something he would soon find out. For now she said nothing, letting Dora admonish him, pleased that her soon-to-be mother-in-law had taken her side.

  Charles Burton Blake stood at the drawing room window, making sure he was out of sight, and watched the taxi pull away. That was it, his daughter gone, but instead of feeling happy and relieved as expected, he felt a wave of sadness. He was alone in this large house now, with only his staff for company, and realised that he would miss his daughter’s intelligent mind. She had told him about blood clots, how that was the cause of her mother’s death, and he assumed she had looked that up in a medical book. At the time it hadn’t softened his feelings towards her, but fuelled his anger. Constance could have gone far, become a doctor or barrister as she’d dreamed, but instead she had given herself to that low-life Albert Jones.

  He tutted and moved away from the window, forcing hardness into his heart again. He had seen the tiny terrace in Kibble Street where his daughter would now live, and smiled sardonically. Constance was getting her just deserts for letting him down and no doubt in a short while she’d be banging on his door, begging to come home.

  ‘Sir, Cook wants to know what you’d like her to prepare for your lunch and dinner,’ Janet said.

  ‘Forget lunch. I’m going to my club, and as for dinner, I’ll leave it to her.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ the woman said as she scuttled off.

  Charles went back to his study and after reading the Financial Times he folded it carefully. He sat quietly contemplating for a while and realised that he had no need to feel alone. He had his club, his friends, and would join them on the nights they got together to play cards.

  There was of course Hettie’s funeral, but it was only a small affair and once it was over he could get back to a well-ordered life. In future he’d be unencumbered by women. They had all let him down. His wife had turned out to be cold, his daughter a slut, and Jessica a liar. He was better off without any of them.

  It was over so quickly that it didn’t seem real. They were married, and she was now Mrs Constance Jones. Albie’s kiss had been perfunctory but that suited her. She dreaded the coming night when they had to share the same room, but hopefully that chaste kiss meant that he would leave her alone.

  When they arrived in Kibble Street, Ivy Nelson followed them inside and Constance was surprised to see that food had been prepared, sandwiches, sausage rolls and other snacks laid out on the table.

  ‘I know you don’t feel like celebrating, but I felt we had to do something to mark the occasion,’ Dora said. ‘A good few neighbours chipped in with the grub and they’ll be popping in soon.’

  Constance forced a smile. She knew Dora was trying to be kind, and after all, it was her son’s wedding day. ‘Thank you. It all looks lovely.’

  ‘Blimey, gir
l, I can’t get over how posh you are,’ Ivy said as she flopped her ample rear onto a chair.

  Constance could tell it was said without malice. Ivy looked to be about the same age as Dora, yet they were like chalk and cheese. Where Dora was slim, Ivy was rather plump, her hair short and dark, whereas Dora’s was a natural blonde. In what seemed like minutes the room began to fill with people and Constance found herself struggling to remember everyone’s name. A girl of about her own age arrived, but unlike her, this girl was dressed like a peacock in a colourful tube dress, stiletto-heel shoes, her face and eyes painted with make-up.

  ‘Wotcher,’ she chirped. ‘You must be Constance. I’m Penny, Ivy’s daughter.’

  ‘Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Gawd blimey, I’d heard you’re classy, but I didn’t expect you to sound like the Queen. Where have you come from, Hampstead, South Kensington, or somewhere like that, no doubt?’

  ‘No, I’m from Clapham.’

  ‘The Queen of Clapham then,’ Ivy quipped, ‘that’s what we’ll call you.’

  There was laughter, but then Dora said, ‘Leave the girl alone, you lot. Have some grub. That’ll keep your mouths busy.’

  ‘We’re only joking,’ Ivy protested, ‘but you’ve got to admit, Constance is a bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘Well, then, instead of this nonsense about the Queen of Clapham, why don’t you call her Connie? You wouldn’t mind that, would you, love?’ Dora asked.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Constance said, when in truth she didn’t like the name.

  ‘Right then, from now on, this is Connie,’ Dora said.

  There was a chorus of ‘Hello, Connie’ and then a record was put on, Cilla Black’s ‘You’re My World,’ and to her surprise, Albie asked her to dance. For a moment, aware that everyone was watching them, she was stiff in his arms, but slowly she began to relax. However, when she saw that his eyes were focused on Penny as he mouthed the words, she pulled away from him, saying curtly, ‘I don’t want to dance any more.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ he said, walking away, but at least not in Penny’s direction. Instead he went into the kitchen, returning as the record ended carrying a glass of beer. ‘Put something a bit livelier on,’ he called to the chap manning the record player.