The flames, blue and orange, sparked and crackled on the sticks. He dragged his chair back, making an unholy noise as wood scraped on the flagged kitchen floor. He didn’t want to disturb the young kitchen lass. She had a hard time of it, working from six in the morning until late at night. He took the kettle to the sink and ran the tap.
What a racket everything made when you were trying to be quiet. He dropped the kettle lid and it went rolling over the floor. He picked it up and banged it on, then carried the kettle carefully to the range. Could he keep Isobel on at school without Leigh knowing who was paying? He’d woken the lass. He heard the stair door open and waited for her to come pattering into the kitchen.
There was no sound. He went to the kitchen door and opened it just in time to see Ray, barefoot and wearing only a towel like a loincloth, creeping along the kitchen corridor, close to the wall.
‘Come here!’ Frank‘s fury had reversed itself, full blast on to Ray who stopped and gave a sheepish grin.
‘It’s all right, Dad. It’s not what you think. I heard you. I went to wake Jenny …’ He hopped on to the carpet runner.
‘Come here, I said!’ Frank held the kitchen door wide, and as Ray went past him – he could not help it – he clouted him hard across the back of the head. It was the first time in his life he’d raised his hand to anyone.
Ray turned swiftly, red in the face, arm raised to strike. But then he gave a weak grin, held on to his head and said, ‘Deserved that.’
‘How long has this been going on?’ Frank was holding himself back from laying into his son.
‘It was the first time. I swear it.’ Ray sat down on the kitchen chair then, seeing his father’s angry face, ‘Look here. I’m not like you, Dad. You and Mother didn’t … I can’t go without …’
‘Can’t? What did you say?’ Frank came to stand next to him and shake him by the bare shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me that you can’t help yourself! We are not going to be dragged through the mud again.’
‘Again?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. If you can’t keep your hands off young girls, it’s time you got yourself a wife.’ Ray looked away and Frank said, ‘You can’t keep your hands off, can you? Well, you’ll marry the next one. Kitchen maid or not. Just get down on your knees and pray to God that you haven’t given her a baby. I’ll not bail you out again. And I’ll not be dragged down with you. I’ll disown you. I may not be able to control your finances but you’ll not dare show your face in Macclesfield when I’ve finished with you.’
Ray held his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll never do it again.’
‘You won’t. I’ll make damned sure you don’t.’
Ray did not reply. Frank said, ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I want to marry Sylvia Hammond. But I can’t get five minutes alone with her. If her mother isn’t watching her, Magnus is.’
‘Sylvia Hammond? First I’ve heard of it.’ Ray made no move, and it occurred to Frank that he was being thrown a red herring. He said, ‘It’s Hammond Silks you’re after, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Yes it is. Well, forget it.’
‘It’s all right for you. Property and financing.’ Ray had lost the sheepish look. ‘We are losing money month by month. The printworks will go under unless something is done.’
‘Hammond Silks is doing no better. Textiles are being overproduced. The markets are dwindling.’ Frank said, ‘Don’t imagine that you and Sylvia will be allowed to go a-courting. Your reputation’s not worth much.’
Ray smiled. ‘I’ll have to find a way around it, then. If my name’s mud.’
‘Frank said, “I mean it, Ray! I meant it when I said you’ll marry next time. Don’t let it happen again.’
‘I won’t. I want to get married. Have a home of my own.’
‘Do you?’ Frank said.
All trace of remorse was gone from Ray’s face now. He said, ‘Well, I can’t live for ever with you and that mad old woman.’ He laughed but it was not the first time he’d said it, and Frank’s temper rose again. ‘Mad old woman? My mother?’
‘She’s nothing to me. Dad. Just a crazy old …’
Frank made a move towards him and Ray backed away, dodging his head as if he expected a blow. Then, as no blow came, he gave a laugh, a tactful, apologetic laugh to break the tension. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It was thoughtless of me. But we have to thrash this out, Dad. You may have a lot of authority in the town. You’re used to being obeyed and listened to. But it’s time you stopped trying to run my life.’ Then he sauntered off, out of the kitchen.
The sooner Ray was married off, the better. In the meantime there was the question of the kitchen lass. Frank would find her another place and look for a middle-aged housekeeper. He looked through the window. It was coming light but still raining. In an hour or two he’d be with his daughter. Why couldn’t his relationship with Ray be as easy as it had always been with the lass he’d lay down his life for?
It was pouring with rain when Isobel went from the house, umbrella close to her head, coat collar high, her stepfather’s words going round in her mind: ‘My house. My shop. My daughter.’ He never said, ‘My wife.’ Was there enough money to pay the debts? How could she get her stepfather out of their lives – hers and Mam’s? She walked fast and arrived half an hour after Miss Duffield had opened up.
Miss Duffield was in a state. She followed Isobel through to the kitchen, where a fire was burning in the grate, and while Isobel spread her coat over a chair and put it in front of the fire to dry, Miss Duffield said, ‘Who’s in control? I can’t work for a man like that. I want my wages.’
Isobel’s heart sank. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘It’s your father.’ Miss Duffield’s face was bright pink. ‘Came in and raked in the cupboards, looking for your mother’s cash box. Pushed me aside. Emptied the till.’
‘When?’
‘This morning. He said, “You are working for me, Miss Duffield. You will be paid monthly, in arrears. I’m off to Manchester for stock. We’re going to sell the latest in ladies’ dresses.”’ Miss Duffield could hardly control herself as she went on, ‘He tried it before. Brought in dresses with hems sagging, side seams crooked, sleeves put in back to front. Your mother said, “I can’t sell them! It’s slop trade. They went wrong at the making-up factory. They are past redemption”.’
Miss Duffield tucked her handkerchief back up the wristband of her black dress, sniffed and said, ‘I’ll not find another job, but I have my pride. I want my wages.’
‘Is there enough to pay you for this week? How much?’
‘Twenty-five shillings. That’s how much.’
Isobel went into the shop and opened the till. It was empty. She had six shillings in her purse and ten pounds in the bank, but she said, ‘Please will you stay? I‘ll find the wages money.’
When Miss Duffield was in the shop Isobel took the duplicate bunch of keys and went upstairs to Mam’s old bedroom, unlocked the cupboard and found the big metal cash box, black with red and gold lines around the handle on the lid. Mam never let anyone see inside the box, and Isobel was nervous as she carried it downstairs and set it upon the table.
On top was a chequebook and a bank passbook with a credit balance of thirty pounds. She scrutinised the transactions. Every week Mam paid in the mortgage money, and on the twelfth of every month drew out the payment. The bank book was not used for school fees. Nevertheless Isobel would write today to Miss Colclough and demand that the term’s fees were repaid. That would bring in at least another sixty pounds. Even if her stepfather paid the fees she was not cheating. He should be paying the mortgage.
Under the bank passbook was another envelope, and inside it eight white five-pound notes. Another forty pounds. Underneath the notes was Isobel’s old birth certificate – without a father’s name. Under that was a brown envelope addressed to ‘Our Lil’, containing two Chancellor Printworks share certificates each for a hundred po
unds.
Isobel stared. Why had Mam bought shares for her? Had Mr Chancellor got them for her at cost or cheap? Attached to the certificates were long sheets of tear-off slips. And at the bottom of the box was a school exercise book with ‘Poems’ written on in Mam’s handwriting. Some Isobel had read before: ‘Little Jim’, ‘Over the Hill from the Poor House’ and ‘Praying for Shoes’. And there were Mam’s own compositions, melodramatic in the way of the Victorians. But the one she read three times and which set up a host of questions in her mind was the one Mam had written to the man who must be her father:
Our Lil has eyes like yours, my love,
And sometimes, when she looks at me,
I touch your heart and feel the fire
Of love that she will never see.
Our Lil had hands like yours, my love,
And sometimes, when she touches me,
The memory of your loving arms
Disturbs my false serenity.
Our Lil, whose ways are yours, my love,
Has never once played false with me.
And my heart breaks to see her truth
And contemplate your treachery.
She read it again, hoping for some blinding flash of insight or revelation, but she was no wiser than before, though she had the oddest feeling that somehow the answer to all her questions was staring her in the face. She read the poem again, and again. She looked at the bank book and the share certificates – and nothing came to her.
She heard Mr Chancellor’s voice in the shop and ran downstairs to ask him into the kitchen for a cup of tea. He and Mam had been childhood friends. He’d give her good advice if she asked.
Frank faced his precious lass over the table. She had a determined look. ‘What do you want to do, lass? When are you going back to school?’
‘I’m going to stay in Macclesfield. Close to Mam,’ she said.
He said, ‘What about School Certificate?’
‘I can’t. Not now,’ she said, apologising. ‘My stepfather can’t afford it.’
‘Listen, lass. I was in the same boat as you. No money to go on with my education.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I do some charity work. If you want to stay on and take your exams, I’ll make sure the funds are raised.’
‘I won’t. Thank you. I don’t want charity,’ she said. She hesitated for a moment with her hands drumming on the table. ‘I have to work. There’s no other way. The shop’s the only way to pay Mam’s hospital bills. My stepfather isn’t rich.’
Frank wanted to say that neither school expenses nor hospital bills were her worry, but he could not. ‘I said, “What do you want?” not, “What do you think you must do?”’
She leaned her elbows on the table and said, ‘My stepfather says the shop is his but I want responsibility for it. I owe him a duty.’
‘You owe him nowt!’ Frank exploded before he saw shock on her face and realised that he’d said the wrong thing.
She went to the fireplace and took down a brown envelope. She drew out the certificates that he’d given to Elsie to make a little extra provision for his precious lass. ‘What are these?’ she said.
He reached for them. His hand was shaking. ‘They are bearer bonds.’
‘Why did Mam buy them for me?’
He said, ‘Bearer bonds are negotiable instruments. Property. Ordinary shares would not come to you if she died. Your stepfather would have lifelong interest on any capital or property that your mother left to you.’
She said. ‘How could these benefit me?’
‘They are payable to the bearer. You can buy and sell bearer bonds without declaring ownership,’ he said. ‘Like paper money, they can be handed over. Except that their value fluctuates as the company does. Paper money is always worth its face value.’
‘Then why would anyone buy bonds?’
‘They are speculative. They’re normally kept in a safe deposit at a bank. When dividends are declared the bank presents them for payment.’ He pointed to the tear-off coupons. ‘Your mother never cashed the last one. It’s too late.’ He tore it off, saying, ‘Your mother has no head for money.’
‘Mam is straight. She settles her bills every month.’ She had a tight, determined expression on her face and one hand was clenched into a fist. She said, ‘Will you buy them back? I need the money.’
‘Not so fast, Isobel.’ He’d better draw parallels with something she might more easily grasp. ‘Our economy, like America’s, is in recession. If Chancellor’s goes under, the bonds won’t be worth the paper they are printed on. Today they are worth less than face value but as the company rises it could go on to the stock market. If it amalgamates with a bigger company or is bought out, your bonds will be worth a lot more. Things will change. Improve. Hold on to them.’
‘I can’t afford to speculate,’ she said. ‘How much? What are they worth on the open market?’
‘Fifty pounds,’ he said. ‘Each.’ He had to tell her that much of the truth but she had gone very white, so he smiled and added, ‘But not to me. I’ll buy them back at face value if you’d rather have the money.’
She said, ‘I’d rather. I want to look after the shop until Mam’s better. The doctors say it could take months. I’ll take over. Pay the rent if I can find the book. I think my stepfather took it.’
He took the bonds from her and then brought out his chequebook. She watched him make out a cheque for two hundred pounds. He handed it over to her and said, ‘Put it in your own account. Not your mother’s. Anything that’s in your mother’s account will be frozen until she’s well.’
‘My stepfather can’t take this, can he?’ She blinked hard, then said, in a rush, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful. I’m not disloyal. But I have to pay Mam’s hospital bills and everything.’
‘It’s your money,’ he said.
‘And if my stepfather holds the rent book?’
This at least was something Frank could control. ‘It’s my property. My business. Always was. It was a private arrangement.’
‘What sort of arrangement?’ She said it in a high-handed way. She was very like Elsie.
He put on his no-nonsense voice. ‘An arrangement whereby Elsie paid ten shillings a week in rent – a lot less than the normal rent for a shop – and I paid the rates, the gas and the electricity. I also got your mother her materials at cost. She came to me when she needed help.’
‘Then can I take over? Will you pass the business over to me, not my stepfather? I’ll pay a proper rent and pay for my cloth.’
‘You couldn’t run a shop. Could you? You’re too young.’ He saw that she was biting her lip, holding her breath as if her life depended upon it. ‘But, no reason at all why you shouldn’t have charge of a shop. You’d be working for yourself as far as the money goes but you’d be working for me to all other intents and purposes. I was doing a man’s work at your age. Keep Miss Duffield. A business needs someone older than you out in front to be taken seriously.’
When he’d finished, her cheeks were bright pink and her eyes were dancing. ‘The shop won’t be my stepfather’s?’
‘No.’ He grinned and put out his hand. ‘Ten shillings a week in advance. I’ll transfer the lease to you in your mother’s absence.’ He biffed her on the arm, laughed and said, ‘I’ll fetch a new rent book next week. When you want anything, no matter what – material, or anything troubling you – you know where to find me.’
‘You can do something,’ she said. ‘Send round a locksmith; I want to put a new lock on the shop and on a safekeeping cupboard.’
The locksmith’s first job would be at Bollinbrook Road. He could put one of those fancy Yale locks on her bedroom door. The shop locks could be done later.
Isobel was ready for the confrontation with her stepfather when he came back the following day. She said, ‘I’m in charge of the shop.’
‘Don’t talk silly!’
‘Mr Chancellor has given it to me.’
He lost his temper. ‘He can’t override me. I
’m the husband of the leaseholder. I’m your father. I have rights!’
‘You have no rights. Not over me or the shop,’ she said.
His eyebrows shot up. He had a disdainful look on his face but at least he didn’t flash his teeth at her or try to lay a finger on her. Isobel thought she had the upper hand.
But face-to-face confrontations with him and the real fear she had of him, the fear that lay behind her bravado, took their toll. She was uneasy when he was home; jumpy unless she knew exactly whereabouts in the house he was. It was a cat-and-mouse existence, though it appeared that she had put a stop to his advances. Every evening she went to visit Mam, and always she returned home despondent after sitting for an hour, chatting at Mam’s bedside while Mam went off into a dream and occasionally looked at her as if she were a stranger. It was costing three pounds a week now for Mam to be treated in privacy. And they could not let her home yet because she had lost all interest in life.
The doctors said, ‘She will not cooperate. Your mother wants to die. She will not take part in anything. She won’t get out of bed, or walk. We are afraid that if we send her home, without constant medical care she will neglect her treatment.’
As the weeks passed Isobel and her stepfather began more and more to live separate lives, only speaking enough to acknowledge the other’s presence. Isobel believed he had found bigger fish to fry. A huge effort was going into his appearance – visits to the barber, hair-oiling, new suits as well as his regular Monday-to-Thursday business trips.
At Lindow, on Sundays, she answered Nanna’s anxious ‘Are you managing, lass?’ with ‘Everything is going beautifully’, when the truth was that the shop was bringing in only enough to pay the bills.
Nanna suggested that she gave up the shop and came to live at Lindow, but Isobel refused to leave the house. It was her house – hers and Mam’s and she would not leave it to her stepfather. She had a legal right to live there, and had it not been for her presence, she knew that her stepfather would first abandon and then sell it. He could not afford to run it and it was for her to work to pay the bills and do anything that was necessary to keep her property. But she was lonely. When she came home to a silent, empty house after a long day in the shop a great weight of loneliness came over her. She’d light a fire, tidy up, but always alert for the crunch of wheels on gravel, ready to run upstairs and lock herself in her room.
A Daughter's Shame Page 35
