A Daughter's Shame

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  He held her fast. ‘Consider yourself spoken for.’

  Isobel tried the flirtatious tilt of the head to see if it would take the heat out of him, make him laugh. ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Isobel. I’m a plain-speaking Scotsman. Not Prince Charming.’ But all the love in the world was in his eyes as he said, ‘When you’re eighteen we’ll have a proper courtship, as your Grandpa calls it. I’ll be a qualified doctor by then. We can wait.’

  Later they seated themselves together, Magnus, Ian and Isobel, eating a buffet supper. Isobel’s plate was piled high with smoked salmon rolls, ham sandwiches, sausage rolls and pork pie. Magnus was teasing her about the amount of food she could eat and yet stay slim.

  ‘I don’t get the chance to eat as much as I’d like every day,’ she said, as she tried to decide what to eat next. ‘I think I’ll have …’

  She never finished the sentence because behind her she overheard Mrs Hammond talking to Ian’s father. Perhaps it was the loud voice – but Ian and Magnus didn’t hear – perhaps Isobel’s sense of hearing was heightened when Mrs Hammond was near. Or did Mrs Hammond intend that only Isobel should hear?

  ‘Did you see that girl’s behaviour?’ she said.

  ‘Who? What?’ Dr Mackenzie said.

  ‘Ian nearly hit poor Ray. And all because of a brazen–’

  ‘Och! Calm down. You’re imagining things.’

  ‘I am not imagining. She’s exactly like her mother.’

  The food turned to ashes in Isobel’s mouth. She took another sip of the drink to help it down. What had she done? Had Ray held her too close? Was she making a spectacle of herself as Mam had done in the photographs?

  ‘Are you all right, Isobel?’ Magnus was worried. ‘You’re not going to faint, are you?’

  ‘I’m not going to faint,’ she said, trying to appear normal. She pushed her plate away. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  Ian said, ‘You’re pale. Do you need fresh air? Shall I take you outside?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please,’ she said.

  But before she could get to her feet Mr Hammond came to her side.

  ‘Isobel,’ he said, ‘your – I suppose you call him your stepfather is at the door. Will you go to him? He won’t come in.’

  Her knees had gone to water. Her face was chalk white as she followed Mr Hammond down the hall. There was that coppery taste in her mouth when she saw her stepfather standing inside the open front door, hands clenching and unclenching, red in the face with proprietorial outrage.

  ‘Come home at once, Isobel,’ he said in that high voice that could sound hysterical when he was annoyed. ‘Where’s your coat?’

  She felt sick. Mr Hammond took her elbow. ‘Isobel can be brought home, Mr Leigh,’ he said in the lovely, courteous way he had. ‘We are in the middle of supper. Would you like to join us?’

  ‘No.’ Her stepfather grabbed her arm and pushed her towards the big front door, ignoring the butler, who was standing back, waiting for orders. ‘Your mother is ill. Get into the car.’

  Mr Hammond, all concern, nodded to the butler and said to Howard Leigh, ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  But she was being handled roughly into the chill night air, down the steps and into the front seat of the Lanchester. Her stepfather slammed the door before he turned back and shouted, ‘There’s nothing I want from you, Hammond! Isobel won’t come here again.’

  He flung himself into the driving seat and pressed the starting button. The Lanchester’s engine burst into life and he drove hard enough to make channels in the fine gravel driveway, all the time repeating, ‘I won’t allow you to go there again!’

  Isobel didn’t want to go back. She never wanted to be under the same roof as Mrs Hammond, ever again. She said angrily. ‘It’s just an excuse, isn’t it? Saying Mam’s ill?’

  ‘Your mother has gone to bed with a blinding headache. Brought on by shock. I can’t wake her.’

  Mam was probably dead drunk. ‘What shock?’

  ‘A telephone call at noon. To say you were missing from school.’

  ‘Not until midday? My God! What a school!’ She must have got her second wind, to say such a thing.

  He ignored her rudeness and said, ‘We waited all afternoon for you to arrive. When you didn’t come I said, “I’ll bet I know where she is!” And what did I find? That your grandmother had allowed you to stay with her without my knowledge!’

  ‘Don’t blame Nanna. She didn’t know I was going to the party until yesterday,’ Isobel said. ‘Can you go a bit faster?’ He put his foot down and they went speeding towards Macclesfield. After twenty minutes Isobel said, ‘If Mam’s not well I’ll stay home with her.’ He didn’t answer so she glanced at him. He was smiling. ‘You said Mam was ill.’

  ‘She’s unconscious. It has happened before. She’ll come round by morning.’

  ‘Unconscious?’ Isobel was horrified. ‘Mam’s never unconscious.’ She’d seen Mam in a drunken sleep, many a time, but not unconscious. ‘You are supposed to watch. See she injects herself.’

  He looked smug. ‘I remind her. I can’t be expected to do everything.’

  Anxiety sharpened, making Isobel turn on him and say, ‘You have to.’ They were now bumping down the short, pot-holed drive. The house was in darkness but a storm lantern lit the way to the garage. He stopped the car and Isobel put her hand on the handle. It was locked. She turned to her stepfather to ask him to unlock it, quickly. And as she turned, his leering face came towards her.

  He reached over her lap and with his right hand clutched the amber dress and pulled it up above her knee – and finding the top of her stocking he slid cold, thin, probing fingers along the soft skin inside her thigh. Instantly all her fear of him came back. This time she would not sit and cry. She shied back a little, then, just before his face could come closer, she used all the strength she had to bring her left fist up and land it straight in his eye.

  At the same moment that he jerked his hand away from her thigh, ripping the fragile fabric of her dress, she bared her teeth to him; just as a wild animal does. ‘Don't you ever do that again!’ she snarled. She wanted to scratch and mark that sneering face. Instead, with lips curled back like a fighting dog, she darted her head forward and literally snapped her teeth. She could hear them gnashing as she warned, ‘I’ll bite you!’

  ‘You silly girl,’ he whined, clutching his face. ‘I wasn’t going to – I lost my balance and my hand …’ But he backed towards his door and struggled to open it as Isobel lashed at him across the wheel.

  ‘Let me out of this car!’ she screeched. The door on his side flew open and he toppled on to the grass, protesting as first his head, then his knees hit the ground.

  She jumped, missing him by inches, and ran to the front door. It was locked. The man was mad. Fancy locking an unconscious woman in the house. What might have happened? ‘Give me the key,’ she yelled, ‘or I’ll break a window!’

  He was on his feet, fumbling in his pocket, coming closer, holding out the key. ‘Say nothing to your mother!’ Isobel pushed him away, turned the key, hurled herself through the door and ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

  Mam lay on the bed, fully dressed, mouth open, eyes closed, her deep, sighing breathing telling Isobel that she was in a coma. Her stepfather had been taught by the doctors what to look for. Mam’s pulse was feeble and her hands were limp and cold. Furious now, Isobel faced her stepfather, who stood at the door of the bedroom. ‘You hateful beast!’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Mam’s in a coma! Ring for a doctor! This is an emergency!’

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ he said. ‘If we hadn’t had the telephone call from the school she would never have–’

  ‘Don’t you dare blame me!’ Isobel put her face close to Mam’s, but she knew what she’d smell. ‘She’s not been taking her injections! You are supposed to see to it.’

  He sniffed. ‘How am I supposed to know a coma from a heavy sleep? I didn’
t know what to do.’

  She pushed past him and went to the bathroom, took the tray down and checked the record book. Mam had taken no insulin since breakfast. Her stepfather knew how to give injections and how to recognise the difference between hypoglycaemia and the diabetic coma she was now in. He was behind her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘If she doesn’t have the insulin – and a high dose at that – she’ll die.’ He was blocking the doorway. ‘Get out of my way!’

  She went to the bedside, plunged the needle into the phial and drew up fifty units. The injection would have to be given under the skin of the abdomen, where it would be absorbed fast. She pulled up Mam’s dress and slid her hand under her light body, unfastened the waist button on her knickers and rolled them down.

  ‘I can’t be expected to do everything.’ She heard his whining voice behind her. ‘It’s not as if she’d eaten a lot of sugar.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Isobel wiped Mam’s abdomen with spirit and pinched the flesh to give her something to push into. She winced as the skin resisted the blunted point. There was a sharpening wheel in the cupboard but Mam had not been doing the needles regularly. Slowly she pushed the plunger. ‘If Mam doesn’t come round in a minute or two you’ll have killed her,’ she said.

  ‘If I’d known it was going to turn out like this – married to another sick woman – I’d never have risked …’

  ‘Risked? You?’ She must try to keep her voice low, in case Mam could hear. ‘It wasn’t you who risked! You gained a wife, a daughter and our house. If you hadn’t married her I’d have been watching. Not stuck in Southport where I can’t see what’s going on. Was she sick?’

  ‘All over the place. I can’t be expected to clean up all …’

  Mam’s eyelids moved. Her pulse beat stronger. Isobel stood and faced her stepfather, and all the loathing she’d tried to suppress was in her face. ‘If you let Mam go into a coma again,’ she threatened, ‘I’ll kill you. I’ll wait until you are asleep and …’ She waved the syringe at him. ‘I’ll fill you so full of this you’ll never wake again!’

  He had the nerve the flash his teeth. ‘I don’t think that is likely. You’ll be expelled. Then you will be here, looking after your mother day and night. I’m damned sure I can’t! Telephone the doctor yourself. I’ll spend the night at the Ring O’Bells where someone knows how to please a man. Your grandmother can move to Bollinbrook Road to take care of my so-called wife.’

  Frank set off early to walk to Bollinbrook Road. It was a baking hot morning and years since the weather had been like this for the Barnaby holidays. Most years in Macclesfield their hot weather came in late May or the beginning of June, and here they were, in the dog-days of early July, with the temperature in the eighties at only ten o’clock in the morning. He’d left the car at home to walk to Elsie’s house in the state of shivering excitement that was growing in him the nearer he came to her house. He had not felt like this for so long. His head was light. His legs were fragile and felt as if they might snap under him. He halted alongside the cemetery and peered through the iron railings and hawthorn hedges, trying to see if Leigh’s car was at the front of Elsie’s house.

  Elsie had been married for over a year and had given every impression of being happy, but there was not a woman in the world who excited him as she did. And last week, unless he’d completely misinterpreted the situation, she’d let him know that she wanted … Oh God! He hoped he wasn’t imagining it.

  He would not cause her any embarrassment, but if he knew Elsie … and if anyone knew what lay beneath that sparkling, unpredictable exterior, it was he. She had planned everything. He could not have imagined it. Under his collar a tiny rivulet of sweat ran between his shoulder blades. He was sure Elsie would not have said what she did unless she meant it. So why go through it in his mind like an over-anxious young swain? He was a mature, experienced man. He sat on the magistrates’ bench and made judgements. And Elsie was not a hothead. She’d known what she was saying, last Friday when he’d called in at the shop for the rent.

  Miss Duffield was in the shop, so he’d gone straight to Elsie in the kitchen, where the rent book and money lay weighted down in the centre of the table, under the tea pot stand. It was hot, and the door was wedged wide to let the cooler air in, and he was annoyed with himself because the minute he set eyes on her he knew again the tightening in his loins she always raised in him. She would know it, too. She’d guess the state he was in.

  She was reading at the table, one leg crossed loosely over the other so that her skirt was raised above her knee. She wore an ivory blouse that had the top three buttons undone. It was not her usual style. The sunlight streaming into the room gave her face a warm glow and made the shadow between those beautiful breasts gleam on her bronzed skin. He said, ‘Been sunbathing?’ though it was risky, being familiar, since she had gone up in the world.

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at him with eyes full of laughter and promise – exactly as she used to do when they were lovers. His senses leapt. She’d undone those buttons deliberately, to be provocative. She said, ‘I like to stretch out in the garden whenever I can. Hidden away in private at the back.’ Even her words were chosen for effect; stretching, hidden, private.

  He would not be flirted with, treated lightly, after all these years. He picked up the rent book. ‘You and hubby?’ he said, sharply.

  It was then she said, ‘The only sensible thing I did was to keep the shop on, Frank.’ He looked up from the rent book quickly. Their eyes met and held, his full of heat; hers promise. She was offering herself. But he could not reply, because Isobel came into the kitchen and, seeing him, said, ‘Hello Mr Chancellor. Rent again? It doesn’t seem five minutes since last time.’

  ‘Hello, Isobel.’ He smiled at his precious lass, who had grown into a beautiful young girl, unaware of her charms, natural and unspoilt. He looked at the cloud of dark hair, the translucent grey eyes, her dancer’s deportment, and he saw again what he had lost. Nothing would make him prouder than to recognise them as his women or walk down Chestergate and Mill Street with the whole of Macclesfield looking on, his precious lass on one arm and Elsie on the other. And it was too late. He was on the outside, looking in, not pulling the strings. He said, ‘Not at school?’

  ‘Home for the weekend,’ she said. ‘I go back on Sunday night.’

  ‘How do you like St Ursula’s?’

  ‘Do you know it?’ she asked, surprised.

  Frank felt colour rising in his face as he tried to cover his mistake. He said, ‘Your mother said. Is it a good school?’

  Isobel pulled a face. ‘It’s very snobby. And expensive for the standard of teaching. But I can take School Certificate. When I asked the headmistress, she said …’, here she mimicked Miss Colclough’s genteel voice, ‘“St Ursula’s girls go to finishing school. They don’t take state examinations and go on to university, Isobel.” Such a snob.’

  Frank grinned. ‘What did you say to that?’

  ‘I said, “I’m not the usual St Ursula’s girl.”’

  Elsie smiled proudly. ‘She’s picking up a lot, though. She’s learned how to answer back. Nobody gets the better of our Lil. Sorry, Isobel.’

  At ten o’clock in the morning, Elsie lay naked in the orchard on the little square of grass she had persuaded Howard to cut for her. So early an hour and the sun was biting into the backs of her thighs. With half-closed eyes she peered through the long grass. She could see the house, though had there been anyone at home she could not be seen. She rolled on to her back and reached for the medicine bottle. She’d read somewhere that an application of olive oil was the secret of acquiring a deep suntan. She ran a little warm oil into the palm of her hand before stroking it first into her neck and breasts and then along her thighs.

  She lay down and the heat of the sun, the oiliness of her body and her longings aroused her so much that she made an effort to turn her thoughts to contemplation of her unhappiness – the disaster that married love with Howard had turned ou
t to be. If she had never known perfectly matched passion with Frank, would she be able to tolerate what passed for a lover’s technique with Howard?

  She was a disappointment to Howard. He said as much last night. She had gone to bed early, hoping that if she feigned sleep he would leave her alone. Sometimes it worked. Last night he came into the bedroom carrying a tray with sherry and two glasses upon it. He found her lying on top of the sheets, with the window open to let in the cooler night air. He said, in the mocking tone he used, ‘Don’t go to sleep, Elsie. Your husband demands his conjugal rights.’ He brought sherry to the bed and shook her shoulder.

  Elsie drank her sherry while he undressed. She looked away, unable to stand the sight of his bony, naked body. It repulsed her, yet she must go along with this charade of lovemaking. It was only fair.

  He took away her empty glass and lay down beside her, turned to face her and without a word, much less a look of love, began to clutch at her breast and squeeze it slowly, trapping the nipple between bony fingers. The other hand slid inside her thigh and set to work, clawing and pinching. Where had he learned these painful tricks?

  ‘Isn’t my wife in the mood tonight?’ he said as she recoiled. ‘Then perhaps she could give her husband a little happiness instead?’ He wanted her to take that limp thing in her hand and excite him to the point where he might be able to use it – if she were quick and ready.

  He took his right hand from her thigh, grabbed her hand and tried to force her to hold his flaccid part while Elsie struggled not to. Then, with eyes closed, he continued for a few moments longer to squeeze her breast, saying irritably when she did not respond, ‘I’ll be gone for a week. Don’t be selfish. Let me at least go satisfied.’