A Daughter's Shame

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Young men of eighteen are the first to be called up to fight.’ They were taking away the fish plates and serving lamb cutlets Milanese. The room was filling with the lively notes of ‘In a Mountain Greenery’ and the moment had passed. Ian said, ‘We won’t be able to stay out of a war in Europe. Mussolini marched into Abyssinia last year. Hitler and Mussolini are going to join forces. We can’t stand back and watch that dictator and the Nazi Fuhrer talking about the “price of peace” and slamming nations into submission.’

  He was serious. He believed every word he was saying. ‘Here, we think everything has a price and the only value is competition. In a competitive world your competitor is your enemy. And having an enemy is one step from going to war.’ He paused for a moment then said, ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  He might not be right but she loved to hear him talking this way. He continued, ‘I’ve always felt disgust for people who talk about creating jobs when they mean creating profit; whose only motive is profit.’ Then he relaxed and said, ‘Sorry. I’m talking like a blinking preacher again. I’m one of the lucky ones. I can afford to say I wouldn’t work just for money. What about you?’

  ‘I’m the opposite,’ Isobel said ruefully. ‘If I hadn’t been working for money, Mam and I would have nothing. I need the security of knowing I’ve a bit put by. I can’t bear to spend every halfpenny. If I only had two and six a week, I’d save sixpence of it for a rainy day.’

  He reached over the table and touched her hand. ‘You must think I‘m a feckless idiot.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t at all. I think you’re …’ Then she blushed and stopped herself from saying more.

  They left the roadhouse and drove on, singing and whistling and humming their way through their combined repertoire of music, from Benny Goodman’s clarinet jazz to singing in harmony the beautiful Schumann songs. They had discovered that they had the same tastes in music as they did in books and food and radio programmes – and humour, for they were singing Gershwin‘s ‘Summertime’ and laughing at the incongruity, because the summer wind was nearly blowing them into the hedgerows as they followed the winding road to South Queensferry.

  Then they were there, and Isobel was silenced by her first close-up sight of the railway bridge that spanned the Forth – the enormous, towering network of three trusses on cantilever arms that made three shipping channels of the wide river.

  She said, ‘It makes me think of three giant spider’s webs, stretched out from shore to shore.’ Then she opened the door and felt the fierce wind that was blowing over the water. ‘My God! It’s cold!’

  Ian brought a fringed plaid shawl from the car to wrap about her head and shoulders on top of the navy coat. ‘You’ll need this on deck,’ he said. ‘Leave your hat in the car.’ He had put on a reefer coat, like fishermen wore. He pulled a knitted hat down over his ears and then, grinning, tucked a flask of whisky into his pocket. They went down to the jetty and the ferry boat, Isobel holding on to his arm to gain the shelter of his bulk from that wind that made the day seem more like March than June.

  Fifteen minutes later Isobel shouted above the wind, ‘I’ve never been so cold in my life!’ They were on deck, side by side, watching the wake water curling white over inky blue. ‘The cold’s making my head ache.’

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ he shouted back and he had to hold her hand tight for the wet deck was rising and falling over the swell of the river. When they were safely inside they found a bench to themselves. Ian brought out the hip flask and unscrewed the silver cap. ‘Take a drop of this.’

  Isobel tipped the bottle up and took a great swig then, laughing and coughing, passed it back to him. ‘Ugh! Takes your breath away!’

  ‘Cures your headache, though.’ He grinned, took a drink and returned the flask to his pocket.

  Isobel felt the fiery spirit warming her. While the boat heaved and dropped she leaned her head back against the bench. And as she did so she was aware of his arm behind her along the seat. Her head was resting on his wrist and warm, rippling sensations were running down her spine.

  It could be accidental – a coincidence. Maybe he was holding on because the boat was heaving. Maybe he hadn’t noticed. Isobel dared not look. Instead she closed her eyes and let all the old familiar sensations course through her: the quick pulse, the blood rushing to her cheeks, the bated breath. She must not let him see how such a little action had affected her, so she kept as still as a statue.

  Then she felt his fingers moving gently yet deliberately under her hair to touch the skin of her neck. This was no accidental touch. Isobel’s eyes flew open and she turned her head. Their eyes met and held for a silent few seconds before he said, very gently, ‘Why, Isobel? Why did you?’

  Tears came springing. ‘I can’t tell you,’ she whispered, but she could not tear her gaze away from those steady blue eyes that she felt could see right into her soul.

  He said, ‘You have married – you have married – a boy who has an incurable disease. You knew all about it and yet you are expecting his baby. I’m sure you’d never marry out of pity.’

  Isobel fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, found one and put it to her face to blow her nose. She couldn’t look him in the eye and lie to him. She said, ‘I’ve always wanted marriage and children – a family round me.’

  He said, ‘But – Magnus? When I’m in love with you. And you are in love with me.’ His hand tightened as he pulled her round so that she must look at him. ‘I know you love me, Isobel. I won’t ask you to say it. I won’t ask anything except that you tell me why you turned me down – for Magnus? Have you any idea what you have done?’

  Isobel did not waver. Her eyes were full of tears but she wouldn’t allow anyone – even Ian – to imply that Magnus did not deserve marriage and happiness. And because she was hurt she was harsh and defensive. ‘I have ninety-five per cent of what I always wanted out of life. I can’t ask for more.’

  She had been sharp and now he let his own hurt feelings show. He was dismissive. ‘Not ninety-five per cent. I’d set it much lower. Magnus needs nursing attention, not a wife’s love. No, my sweet one. In your shoes, with your capacities, I’d say I had only five per cent.’

  Isobel burst into tears and ran for the ladies cubicle, where she had another bout of the ridiculous bubbling-over of tears, which she tried to control. It took five minutes but when she went out on deck, into that tearing wind, she had done crying, brushed her hair and splashed water on her eyes. She must be strong, she told herself. She had to face the world.

  Ian was holding on to the rail, watching the docking, because they had reached the opposite shore. Isobel stood close to him and he put an arm across her shoulder in a protective action, for the boat was heaving in the wind that blew even harder on this bank of the river. She tasted salt from the spray and drew the shawl tight about her head and shoulders. They watched the deckhand throw a rope over to the man on the dock, saw him give it a half-hitch round the capstan with a precision born of years of practice. Isobel shouted above the wind, ‘Do they never miss?’

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Ian was laughing into the wind. ‘It will steady in a sec, when the engine’s held astern against the pull of the rope.’

  The gap between the ferry and the dock was closing. The boat was held fast and they were dropping the gangplank for the few passengers who were leaving. Ian tightened his hand on her shoulder, put his mouth close to her ear and said, quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions. All forgiven?’

  She tried to ignore the warning lump that was in her throat. ‘Nothing to forgive. You had a right to ask.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘No right at all.’

  They went below on the return journey and found the walkway around the engine. Ian and the engineer gave her all the facts about ships’ engines – facts she’d never need. All Isobel saw were the great shiny brassworks, as clean and polished as Nanna’s candlesticks. It was hot and no
isy in the engine room but it was comforting, listening to men talking of pistons and flywheels and spinning governors and cranks while she gathered herself and merely watched the engine noisily clanking and pedalling away.

  Here though, on the train, Magnus was asleep and the train was pulling up an incline through mountainous country. Isobel reached up to the luggage rack for the bag that held the books Ian had lent her.

  The first one she opened was a slim volume. Selected Poems by Rupert Brooke.

  All she knew of his poetry was ‘If I should die, think only this of me …’. This volume was inscribed, ‘To Rowena. Ian. Christmas 1934’.

  She read the first few poems before she came to the page where Ian had placed a ribbon marker. ‘The Chilterns’.

  Your hands, my dear, adorable, Your lips of tenderness. Oh, I’ve loved you faithfully and well. Three years, or a bit less.

  It wasn’t a success.

  Thank God, that’s done! and I’ll take the road, Quit of my youth and you. The Roman road to Wendover, By Tring and Lilley Hoo, As a free mart may do.

  For youth goes over, the joys that fly, the tears that follow fast. And the dirtiest things we do must lie, forgotten at the last. Even Love goes past.

  What’s left behind I shall not find. The splendour and the pain; the splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again.

  But the years that take the best away, Give something in the end and a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, that have themselves to friend.

  I shall desire and I shall find the best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind, that soothes the darkening shires. And laughter, and inn-fires. White mist about the black hedgerows, The slumbering Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, Certainly these remain.

  And I shall find some girl perhaps. And a better one than you. With eyes as wise, but kindlier, And lips as soft, but true.

  And I daresay she will do.

  Magnus was looking at her when Isobel turned her tearful eyes away from the window she’d been staring through for the last five minutes. ‘Do you think I’ll ever walk again?’ he said.

  She came down to earth. She had responsibilities and duties. She must be strong enough for the two of them. She had nothing to be wistful and tearful about. ‘You will be on your feet in a month,’ she said firmly. ‘The doctors have told you so.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elsie was back where she belonged, in charge of her shop, everything as it was, and now, at last, she was looked up to, respected. Even Mrs Hammond, obviously thinking about her coming grandchild, was making friendly overtures – asking her and Mother over to Archerfield for Sunday lunch. Elsie was a member of the parish church ladies’ needlework guild and had been asked to join the Mothers’ Union.

  The older ladies of the Mothers’ Union visited Howard on the days Elsie couldn’t make it to the asylum and Mrs Grimshaw was very understanding. She’d say things like, ‘Your husband used to be a fine figure of a man, Elsie. It must break your heart to see him brain-damaged’.

  Howard was reduced to a shambling, demented wreck. Brain-damaged was not the name Elsie would give to him. Ruined was what she would call Howard. But what status it had brought to her. She was seen as the proud, upright woman who strove to keep her husband in some comfort in an amenity bed that was costing two pounds ten shillings a week.

  This morning she dressed in the sapphire-blue linen dress that so became her. She felt better than she had for years and she smiled at her reflection as she pursed her lips and applied lipstick. The diabetes was stable now that she no longer drank alcohol. Elsie had everything under control. She ran down the stairs and popped her head in at the shop door. ‘All right, Miss Duffield?’

  ‘The hospital almoner called in to say will you drop into her office if you are visiting Mr Leigh this afternoon.’ Miss Duffield’s face was as long as a wet weekend. ‘Mr Chancellor’s in the back.’

  Frank was standing, one arm casually against the mantelshelf, wearing a dark suit as if he were on important business – his greying hair tamed, his hazel eyes alive with interest, his demeanour dynamic and energetic. He had not changed – as she had. Elsie said, ‘What brings you here today?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’ He smiled at her. ‘You look nice.’

  She knew what he was going to ask. She must make him believe that she had meant it when she swore on Dad’s grave that she would break no more commandments. She said, ‘I’m going to Bollinbrook Road this morning, to make sure everything’s ready for Isobel and Magnus.’ They were coming home today at seven. ‘And I have to visit Howard this afternoon.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Not good.’ Elsie went to stand by him, in front of the empty fireplace.

  ‘Does he want you there every day?’

  She smiled. ‘All Howard wants is what I bring him to eat. That’s all. He eyes the cardboard box and says, “Any more sandwiches? Any jelly? Cake?” and when I say, “All gone, Howard”, he says, “Well. Don’t let me keep you, dear”.’

  ‘Have you got power of attorney?’

  ‘Yes. I sign the cheques. The insurance money paid the mortgage off. The house is safe. It’s ours now. But Howard hasn’t much left.’

  ‘What about his debt to the loan company?’

  ‘I wrote to them. I said they could sue if they wished but there was no money to be had. It would be better for them to cut their losses. My brave husband will be in an asylum for the rest of his life.’

  ‘And where does that leave you? Where does it leave us?’

  ‘Us?’ She smiled. ‘There’s no “us” about it, Frank. I have a dependent husband. I’m a married woman. There’s no future for us.’

  Isobel collected specimens and sent them to the Infirmary daily, gratified to find that there was no more bleeding. She examined urine samples and learned how to shave Magnus. She took as much care as his mother had and she basked in Magnus’s appreciation and compliments.

  She was overflowing with gratitude and love for Magnus. She was his wife, his mother and his nurse all in one. And he was her husband, her sometimes lover, her best friend, her very own good man.

  She had hours to herself every day when Magnus rested, so she took driving lessons and passed the test and Magnus was happy for her to take the wheel. She drove them both to see Mam in the mornings and then she’d leave Magnus with Mam, who was well and happy and back to her old self again. After lunch she went out alone, for pleasure, driving miles out of her way with the hood down. She’d sing at the top of her voice when she felt carefree and she’d park and walk a mile or two across the moorland paths whenever she became frightened at what lay ahead.

  She had no need for an iron will. The big life events – birth, death, being loved – she saw were all beyond the control of the will. She could only pray for strength to brazen it out – passing the baby off as Magnus’s when soon it might be all too obvious.

  From Magnus and everyone but God, Isobel hid her biggest fear. And her biggest fear was that all was not going well with her pregnancy. Her baby had not quickened, and at five months from her last period, for it was mid-August, she ought to be showing more signs. Mam and Nanna said that every pregnancy was different and she dared not ask anyone else. Magnus did not want her to tell anyone the expected date. They were going to “wait and see”.

  Her other worry was that Magnus had let it be known that he could not go to Sylvia’s wedding unless he was on his feet. He would not be pushed out in his wheelchair and every day her poor darling struggled with exercises to strengthen his muscles. He was desperate to get back to work but seemed to dread the approach of the wedding. ‘Father needs me,’ he said. ‘The silk industry is in the doldrums. It’s never been steady. Factories are closing down, going under.’

  ‘I can’t see that happening to Hammond’s, Magnus,’ she said. ‘Not with a business the size of yours.’

&nb
sp; ‘We’ve had to lay off a lot of workers. The Japanese have captured some of our suppliers as well as stealing the markets. Our raw silk comes from the Far East. We do some rayon cloth and mixtures but we have a lot of competition from the Manchester cotton mills. Silk has always been a luxury cloth – the costliest of all fabrics and the orders aren’t coming in. Father can’t afford to pay wages for men who aren’t working, and that includes me.’

  Isobel worried. She didn’t like having their money brought round by Magnus’s father every week when neither of them had earned it. So she insisted on holding the fort – going to the mill to learn Magnus’s job and doing it for him every Monday, Wednesday and Friday until Magnus should be fit again.

  She loved her job. It took only a few days to pick up the bookkeeping side of it, filling in the Sales and Purchase Ledgers and balancing the General Ledger. It took much longer to learn to work out the wages, there being so many different rates and hours and shifts. There were mechanisms on the machines, like those on bicycles, to clock up the yardage. The clocks had to be checked and the yardage counted. The increase in rates of payment over a certain yardage, the hours on the women’s worksheets and time sheets, and the difference between the women’s and men’s rates – all had to be taken into account.

  Isobel needed to use a slide rule to work it all out. Yet if she made a mistake the millworkers were the first to march up to the office to put her right. They knew to the last halfpenny what they had earned. She joked about it to Magnus saying, ‘You don’t need a wages clerk. You’d save a whole wage packet if you let the workers tell you what to pay them.’

  Magnus said, ‘Are you happier, knowing we are earning our keep?’

  He said it in fun but Isobel answered him seriously. ‘I’m glad we’re being paid, but the mill can’t stand the huge wages bill.’

  ‘All the workers are necessary,’ he said. ‘For all those processes.’

  ‘It’s the expensive silk that’s unnecessary,’ she said. ‘The mill has to be running at a loss.’