Magnus said. ‘It’s always been like that. Good years and bad.’
Isobel was in no position to give the owners of the family firm her opinion but it was foolish to be complacent and hope for an upturn. She said, ‘I think the silk industry is dying on its feet. There are all these new fibres. What about the American du Pont stuff – nylon? Everyone will want nylon when it’s available here.’ She had seen imported nylon stockings and had bought a petticoat made from woven nylon. She said, ‘It’s stronger than silk. It doesn’t crease. If Hammond’s went over to nylon surely all you’d have to do is buy in the thread and weave it.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, darling. There will always be a demand for the best.’
Mrs Hammond did not approve of her working but was happy for Isobel to drive Magnus to Archerfield where he could practise walking up and down the hallways. Isobel would pip the horn at the front door to call for help in getting Magnus out of the car and then she’d drive off to Hammond’s Silks. Mrs Hammond only saw Isobel when she collected or delivered Magnus. Then, for Magnus’s sake, his mother made a pretence of acceptance of his wife. But Isobel believed that it was a mockery.
One day they all went to Archerfield for Sunday lunch; Magnus, Nanna, Mam and Isobel. Mrs Hammond did not speak a single word directly to Isobel. Like the Posh Girls’ mothers had done when she was young, Mrs Hammond spoke through others, saying to Magnus in Isobel’s presence, ‘I will ask Isobel, very nicely, if I may borrow my son for half a day …’ This was said to cast her in the role of jealous, possessive wife. Or she’d say, ‘I insist on your being here on your father’s birthday’ or for Sunday lunch – or for whatever suited her before she’d add, slyly, ‘that’s if Isobel will allow you to come and see your mama, of course.’
After that, Isobel drove Magnus to Archerfield at weekends. But she left him there and went to chapel with Nanna and Mam then spent the rest of the day at Lindow, because of the danger of bumping into Ray Chancellor. She couldn’t bear to speak to him. But she often spotted the Delage in the middle of the day, parked down one of the cart tracks in the lower slopes of the hills when she drove the scenic way to and from Archerfield.
Isobel had left Magnus at home on the day she finally settled old scores with Doreen. It was a Thursday in early September. It had rained for a week and the roads to Bollington were dangerous so Isobel went into Macclesfield to buy the groceries and all the things she needed for Magnus.
By lunchtime, with only half the shopping done, she was starving. She would go to Shandy’s. Shandy would offer her something to eat. She drove the car down Jordangate and as she rounded the corner into Brock Street, the Delage, with Ray Chancellor at the wheel, came straight out towards her. She felt sick and faint and was angry with herself because it had become an involuntary reaction to seeing him. So she pretended she hadn’t noticed it was he who was waiting for her to finish taking the corner. Isobel pulled on the handbrake to let him pass. Why was he at this end of town, at lunchtime?
Nobody answered her knock at Shandy’s. There was no one in the bakehouse across the yard but it was unheard of for the whole family to be out, so she opened the back door, went into the kitchen, put her head around the living room door and called out, ‘Yoo-hoo! Anyone at home?’ as she did when Shandy was about.
There was a scuffling overhead; the sound of curtain rings scraping along the pole, a scrambling for shoes, footsteps along the landing and on the stairs; then Doreen came into the room, make up gone, hair hastily combed through. She was wearing a straight tweed skirt and a white lacy jumper, fashionable then, which had a collar and V neck with gathered sleeve heads. And she did not know that she was wearing it inside out. Ray Chancellor and Doreen were lovers still.
‘It’s you!’ she said, and relief and spite came into her voice and her eyes. ‘Miss Prim! Not so prim, eh?’ She pursed her lips and said, ‘I heard all about how you ran off with poor little Magnus!’
‘I expect you did,’ Isobel said as she put her handbag over the back of a chair and sat down. ‘I thought you worked at Chancellor’s, Doreen. Have you given your job up?’
‘No. You’re lucky to catch me. I can’t give up. Ray says, “How would I carry on without Doreen?”’ She laughed out loud. ‘Normally I don’t have time to come home at dinner time. I take sandwiches and spend the dinner hour working with Ray.’
‘My word,’ Isobel said. ‘He’s putting his back into it!’
Doreen gave the sly look. Something nasty would come next. It did. Doreen said, ‘You could have knocked me down when I heard about you and Magnus Hammond. It was all over Macclesfield. Sylvia Hammond told Ray, and he told me – and I …’
Isobel said, ‘What did you say about me?’
The laugh exploded. ‘I said, “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch. I’m all talk and no action. It’s the prim little misses who get up to things.” Mind you, poor little Magnus is not exactly Johnny Weissmuller, is he?’
Isobel was glad she could summon up her self-control when she needed it. She fought down the impulse to strike Doreen and said in a sweet, confidential voice, ‘And what about you, Doreen? I remember you telling me how insatiable you were. Not a very attractive boast, I remember thinking. How’s Cyril? Is there any improvement?’ She said it without a blush.
Doreen pursed up her lips, lifted her eyebrows and said, ‘Cyril’s all right. He’s more of a man than yours.’ She waited a few moments, weighing up whether or not to say more, then she said, ‘I’m expecting a baby too.’
Isobel stood up, picked up her coat and put it on slowly, ready to leave quickly before facing Doreen again and said, ‘Congratulations, Doreen. A baby! Who’s the father?’
‘What do you mean?’ Anger came blazing into her eyes. ‘What are you talking about? Who’s the father? Who do you think?’
If Isobel had to leave Macclesfield in disgrace in three months’ time – if she were to be shown up as a trollop – she would relish this moment; this moment when she opened her handbag, unfastened the button-down pocket in the silk lining and brought out the photograph. She handed it to Doreen and watched her face pale as she stared at it. ‘The baby could be anybody’s, I suppose,’ Isobel said. ‘Though it’s more likely to be Ray Chancellor’s. But then, I said to myself, “No! Not Doreen with a little illy-jittie …’
Doreen’s lips were white as she tore the photograph in two. ‘How dare you! How dare you say that Cyril isn‘t the father?’
Isobel kept on smiling. ‘Oh, I dare. I dare. And it doesn’t matter that you’ve torn the photograph up. There‘s another one.’
‘Where?’
‘In my safe deposit box at the District Bank. Ray Chancellor can ask my father-in-law to get it for you if you need proof. I’m sure Sylvia’s father would be happy to oblige.’
Doreen’s face was red. She threw the pieces of photograph into the fire, and staring at Isobel hissed, ‘It doesn’t prove anything.’
‘That’s not the way Ray or Sylvia would see it, though, is it?’ Isobel said, very softly. And when Doreen didn’t answer, ‘Unless you stop, I shall tell the Hammonds. And then we’ll see how long Ray’s engagement lasts. And how much longer you and Ray Chancellor can keep up your sordid little affair.’
She went to the door, turned back to face her and said, ‘Let us make a pact, Doreen. Never utter my name again. And I’ll never mention yours.’
A month before Ray married, Frank’s mother died. She had been prescribed a laudanum tincture to help her sleep and it had eased her into a peaceful end. It was all over within a week: Ma’s death, the funeral and Frank’s decision to move out of Park Lane. He’d make The Swan in Jordangate his temporary home. It was his property. There was a large flat over the public bar and it would do him nicely until he found something else.
He stood at the window now, watching the men unloading the van, dumping his furniture and belongings on the pavement so that the removers wouldn’t obstruct the narrow street f
or longer than necessary. Already, three carts were lined up waiting for some motor cars to edge past the big van.
At The Swan there was a back way in from the alley so that he and anyone he invited could come in unobserved. Elsie lived next door. There was the pub below; a lively place – a working man’s pub with darts and dominoes in the tap room and a piano-player most nights in the lounge. Living here he’d feel like a twenty-year-old again. Or he would if Elsie would only …
Oh, hell. Why couldn’t he forget her? Why couldn’t he find a woman he loved as much as Elsie? Why would she only offer friendship? She laughed when he told her that if Willey-Leigh died he, Frank, would marry her.
‘I’ll be too old, Frank,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be a grandmother. You will want a bit of young stuff!’ But he didn’t. He wanted Elsie.
Sylvia’s wedding day was the last Saturday in November and Isobel’s pregnancy was not very noticeable though there were only five weeks to go. Her waist had gone. She had a little bay window in front and a rather large bottom but all the signs were hidden under the dropped-waist sailor dress she’d made from ice blue shantung. She made a loose-fitting coat to go with it and bought one of the new tilted hats that had a crown like a mortar board and a huge flat sweep of a brim, shaped like a swallow’s wing. It flattened the pointed shape of her face, gave her height and distracted attention from what Magnus affectionately called her ‘bulge’.
When Magnus and she arrived at the church there was quite a crowd in the churchyard and another at the gate in the Market Place. Magnus had made it. All the effort and months of hard exercising on those leg muscles had paid off though Magnus himself did not really want to be there, he said. He was going to return to work the following week and today he looked splendid – handsome and tall and strong as he walked down the aisle, using only a walking stick, with Isobel proudly on his other arm. Their seats were right at the front, next to Rowena and her father. Ian had sent a present and apologies.
Isobel was glad to be surrounded because she’d been afraid that the stifling, fainting feeling would come over her in Ray Chancellor’s presence. She did not look him in the face or stand close to him when she was obliged to speak to him at Archerfield. She glanced at the front row where he and his best man sat as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The faintness did not come over her and all Isobel felt was revulsion, tempered with anxiety that the baby who at that moment was turning somersaults inside her, might turn out to be large and red-headed.
She opened the wedding service programme of thick embossed vellum; the initials H and C intertwined. The doors were pulled back and Bach’s beautiful Toccata and Fugue in D minor came tumbling down to the two-flats key of B minor in a superbly played diminuendo for the low slow notes of ‘The Bridal March’ from Lohengrin. They all stood as Sylvia came down that long aisle on her father’s arm, ethereal in a dress of ivory lace with an heirloom veil worn back from her face under a circlet of stephanotis on her baby-blonde hair.
Isobel glanced at Magnus when they were singing the first hymn, ‘Love Divine, all Loves Excelling’. How wonderful it would have been if she and Magnus had been able to marry in their own church in such style. But he looked very pale with his eyes wet and shiny.
Behind the brave exterior Magnus’s heart was thundering as he told himself, ‘I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell Father that he is the father of Ray. I couldn’t break my sister’s heart.’ He nudged his darling Isobel and when she turned to smile at him, whispered, ‘When it’s over, don’t let us hang about for photographs.’
She whispered back, ‘Are your legs aching?’
‘A bit.’ He said, ‘Would you mind awfully if I asked you to drive me home? You can go back. Enjoy the reception. Stay for the dancing.’
‘All right,’ Isobel said. ‘But I’ll stay home with you.’ Then she shushed him because the service was starting: ‘Dearly Beloved. We are gathered here …’
They left the church before the organist played the Mendelssohn. Isobel helped Magnus out, by the side gate into Church Street where the car was. He was feeling the strain after an hour on his feet. ‘Are you really all right?’ she fretted once he was settled.
‘I’m sorry!’ His eyes were very bright. It seemed to Isobel that he was going to indulge in the pessimism that so often overcame him. ‘I’m no use to anyone. I want to get back to work. I wanted to be like I was before – and look at me!’
Isobel weaved between the market stalls, honking the horn until they were clear. Then she turned to Magnus, ‘Enough! No self-pity please. You can easily do three days a week at Hammond’s Silk. I’ll drive you there. You work sitting down. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are better than you’ve been for years. There’s no bleeding at all.’
Two weeks later, the bleeding into the bowel recurred and Magnus went into hospital for another blood transfusion. It bad been detected early this time the doctors said. He should be home well before Christmas and the birth of the baby. The doctors were right.
Magnus came out of hospital, walking with sticks and none the worse for the setback. Isobel helped him into the car to take him home and told him, ‘Everything’s going to be all right. The doctor said if they can catch it early, like this, then you’ve got a long, happy life ahead of you.’
She held him close. ‘I want you to be strong and well. I want my child to have a good, kind dad who loves us both.’
‘You’ve got it,’ he said.
It was pouring with rain at the time but they drove up to the rain-lashed hills singing ‘The Umbrella Man’ and shouting ‘Little Sir Echo’ at the tops of their voices, defying nature to do her worst.
Christmas came and went – and no baby. Nanna moved in with them at Bollinbrook Road, to stay for a month to care for Magnus and help with the infant. A room was booked at the Cottage Hospital and everyone, except evidently the baby, was ready for the birth.
Isobel’s ankles swelled if she’d been on her feet all day and her back ached if she lay in bed in the same position for very long but she had no predictive signs. She didn’t feel that the birth was imminent but now, Nanna was in charge.
When New Year’s Day came and went Nanna demanded, ‘What did the doctor say to you? When do you see him?’
‘I’d be aware of it, if anything was wrong, Nanna,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to see a doctor until …’
‘You’ve never been, have you?’ Nanna gave her a knowing look, ‘I’m calling doctor,’ she said. ‘Dial number for me.’
There was nothing for it. Isobel dialled and asked for the doctor to come and examine her. Dr Russell came immediately. Isobel went upstairs to undress while Nanna stood at the other side of the bed, watching him. He was thorough. He pressed his hands above and low the bulge; he frowned and pressed them round the sides of the bulge; he squeezed the poor baby until the bulge came up in a mountain between his palms. He examined her swelling breasts. Then he searched in his bag for a rubber glove to put on his right hand before he did something more intimate.
When he had finished and he and Nanna had covered her up, he went quiet for a few moments before finally he said, ‘Well my dear. You certainly are pregnant. But this is no nine-month pregnancy. Seven months, I’d say. All is well. Cancel the hospital bed and reserve one for the end of February or the beginning of March.’
When they left the room tears of gratitude came rolling down Isobel’s face. She was expecting Magnus’s baby. Her child was going to have its own true father.
It was mid-February; nine months and one week exactly since Magnus and she had eloped and Isobel was coming out of a fast, nail polish scented dream of stars and bright lights.
A nurse’s face was swimming into her line of vision. ‘It’s a boy!’
They had given her a whiff of chloroform at the end of twelve hours of pain. She had only been out for a few minutes but it felt like years. She glanced at the sheet. Cottage Hospital. She looked at the nurse’s face.
‘It’s a boy! You have a
beautiful baby boy!’ The nurse had a nice face. She said, ‘Ten pounds. No wonder he took so long to come.’
‘Where?’ Her voice was wavering. She tried to sit up.
‘Lie down! You’ve got stitches in. Baby is in the nursery, being bathed and wrapped. Go to sleep!’ She was patting the pillows, talking firmly and pushing Isobel gently down with strong hands.
Isobel knocked her hands away and sat up. ‘I won’t go to sleep. Bring my baby.’
The nurse spoke indulgently, pacifying. ‘Mother! We let our mothers sleep for twelve hours before we bring the babies.’
‘Bring him this minute!’ Isobel shouted at the top of her voice. ‘I want him now!’ she said and saw with glee that the nurse went fast, almost ran from the bedside. When she’d gone Isobel plumped the pillows behind her back and edged up the bed, painfully aware of the stitching. It was seven-thirty in the morning. She determined to put from her mind, as the thoughts came rushing back, all remembrance of the whole messy business. She heard footsteps – the nurse, with Magnus dotting and clumping along behind her. Then they were here and putting into Isobel’s arms the most beautiful creature in the world. Her son had bright, light blond hair that was thick and wavy. Through the shawl she could feel the strong little body that was of her but no longer hers. She gazed and gazed. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She was feasting on the sweet smell, the solid feel, the sight and the sound of him, for he was pursing his lips and trying to suckle her arm, making little mewing sounds that were wrapping her round with love.
Magnus was seated and he leaned over the bed, one arm across her shoulder. ‘Hello, son!’ he said. He put his face next to hers and Isobel felt his tears running warm and wet down her cheeks, mingling with her own.
The nurse had gone. Isobel handed the baby to Magnus. ‘Hold him, darling, while I undo my front,’ she said.
Magnus said, ‘The nurse says she’s going to teach you how to do it. Later today. Are you allowed to … ?’
‘Teach me? Stuff and nonsense,’ she answered as she exposed one swollen breast and took her baby. ‘We’ll do it by ourselves. Won’t we, baby?’
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