The Golden Lion

by Pamela Haines

Before eating, she crossed over to the record case. ‘Shall I play the gramophone a bit? There’s Deanna Durbin that Maria bought me. Or some of Eddie’s records.’ She thought of that voice which came only out of the black Decca box now, never the wireless. She couldn’t associate it with the photograph by Maria’s bed. The two never came together.

  ‘Not for me,’ he said, ‘I’d as soon sit and talk to you, ducky.’

  From the very first she’d been at ease with Uncle Eric. Maria had worried. Helen had overheard her saying, ‘… I wonder if she won’t be afraid of all men, all older men, now, after that.’ She thought Helen might not want to call Uncle Eric ‘uncle’. She thought of everything. But ‘No,’ Helen had said, ‘I want him to be my Uncle Eric’

  Maria was her mother. Eddie, when the war was over, would be her stepfather. Mam’s death, three years ago now, was a buried sadness. A dull ache on cold days, a heartache coming on suddenly when she least expected it. She prayed for Mam after Communion and at Benediction, saying for her Miss Dennison’s pink rosary. Mam was in heaven and happy. And safe inside Helen’s head too, in memories.

  Uncle Eric was an old man but he loved to walk, and the two of them went off here, there, everywhere. It was she who couldn’t keep up. Walking, talking – he loved to talk to Helen. When Dick and his family came over, he showed Helen off to them. ‘My new niece.’ Dick had laughed, throwing his arm round his wife’s shoulders (he was always touching her). ‘Another Maria then’

  But there was no Gwen now. She had died just before Christmas. Jan had come to stay with Maria and her grandfather. Helen had wanted to tell her she knew how it felt, but couldn’t. Jan was almost a grown-up. So she just said, ‘I offered up a Mass for your mother,’ and Jan, red-rimmed eyes, looking a bit surprised, had said, ‘Oh, thank you very much.’ Politely.

  It had been Gwen who had been so especially kind the first summer when Helen was settling in at Moorgarth. July and August 1940: bringing over from Middlesbrough, books, dolls, gramophone records, even a dolls’ house. ‘Our girls have grown out of them. You enjoy them, love.’ There were boys’ adventure books, fairy tales, girls’ school stories. She hadn’t been too good at reading then so Maria had read to her in the evenings. Our Lady, in a white satin dressing-gown with swansdown round the collar, and blue satin slippers.

  In one of the fairy books, someone had coloured in all the black and white pictures. Maria read The Golden Lion.

  ‘… the Princess took the lion into her own room … She was just beginning to doze when she heard a voice, “O lovely Princess, if you only knew what I have gone through to find you.” The Princess jumped out of bed screaming, “The lion! the lion!” but her friends thought it was a nightmare, and did not trouble themselves. “O lovely Princess!” continued the voice, “fear nothing! I am the son of a rich merchant, and desire above all things to have you for my wife …”’

  ‘What tunes had the lion inside?’

  ‘Tunes from Sicily, where I come from, where the story comes from.’

  ‘Sing me some –’

  ‘Another day. If I can remember. It’s a long time, you see.’

  ‘Who did the colouring, can I colour the ones that aren’t?’

  ‘Dick did. It was already coloured when I read it, after I’d been rescued from the sea.’

  ‘Tell me again about being rescued.’

  How could she ever tire of Maria’s tales? They had bits left out, though – things Maria wasn’t telling. ‘Everyone has secrets, Helen.’

  ‘Grown folk even?’

  ‘Ah, grown-ups most of all, Helen.’

  Maria did so much for her. At the end of a day’s work she sewed Helen trousers, summer shorts, blouses from her own old frocks. Next month they would be spending a week by the sea together in Wales.

  ‘Will I pour you more tea, Uncle Eric?’

  ‘Yes, please. You’re very dear to me, Helen love.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ She didn’t know what to say when he made remarks like that, which was more and more often now. She loved them.

  ‘If you really liked the cake, why don’t you have another slice?’

  ‘And spoil my supper?’ Often when he was speaking, his eyes sparkled, so that he didn’t look old any more. When they went out walking together at the beginning, he had held her hand. Now she held his. Then he would be safe.

  ‘Know who you remind me of – I’ve said it before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Maria,’ she said. ‘You are a daftie –’

  ‘Don’t cheek me,’ he said in mock anger. Then:

  ‘She was a clever girl, was Maria. Running that business –sound head on her shoulders. There’s many a man could do with her head. And that ice-cream fellow she married, all charm and little else, he’s had cause to thank her. If he’d had the handling of the brass he made, there’d be nothing now.’

  She thought he was probably talking to himself, which he often did now. She’d come into the room and he’d be in the middle of an imaginary conversation. ‘Well, I said, if copper doesn’t pick up …’

  ‘I’ll go out and feed the hens,’ she said, ‘then when I come in, we’ll put the news on.’

  ‘North Africa,’ he said. ‘Tunisia. News of Guy.’

  ‘There was a letter,’ she said. ‘Miss Dennison read me bits. She’s sending it over for you.’

  She prayed for Guy every night. He had been several months fighting in Africa now. Miss Dennison’s face on Sundays was anxious and careworn.

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘good. I worry about the lad.’

  The kitchen with the Aga was warm, but outside the east wind blew icily. She hadn’t on a heavy enough coat and shivered as she carried out the mash. She couldn’t wait to be in again by the fire with Uncle Eric. Soon Maria would be back and the two of them would cook supper together. Afterwards they were all three going to a sing-song in the village hall.

  ‘Hey, I’m back, here I am.’ She put her head round the door. ‘Shall I put the wireless on?’

  He was sitting in his chair, quite, quite still.

  ‘Uncle Eric,’ she said, ‘Uncle Eric, wake up.’

  But he must be awake. He was looking at her. And so strangely. So strangely. She knew that he could see her.

  They looked at each other. ‘Talk to me,’ she said. ‘Talk to me. What is it, Uncle Eric?’

  She put out a hand to touch him. His hand grasped hers. She said, ‘Oh Uncle Eric. You can understand me, can you understand me?’

  His silence terrified her. And his eyes, asking her some question she couldn’t answer.

  ‘Uncle Eric, please. Oh, Uncle Eric,’ she took hold of his other hand and kneeled down beside him. ‘Uncle Eric, don’t worry about anything, you’re going to be all right. I’ll get someone to help …’

  Without putting on her coat, she ran all the way to Park Villa. Banging on the door – she wasn’t calm now, but shaking, sobbing. She clutched at Miss Dennison.

  ‘Come quickly, help us – something awful is wrong with Uncle Eric.’

  For Maria, the greatest shock at the funeral was Dick’s appearance, even though it had been only a few days since she had seen him – when he’d come hurrying over, too late, to see his father for the last time.

  It seemed to her standing by the open grave in the April sunshine that hardly any time, hardly enough time, had passed since Gwen’s death. Gwen who had been buried in Bradford on a grey-skied, bare-branched November day. Today in Thackton, apple trees had burst into blossom in the corner of the churchyard, but Dick looked as cold as on that November day. Leaning on his stick, he stood beside Eleanor, the dark shadowing of his eyes more marked. Dulcie, up from London, on his other side.

  Eric, victim of a stroke, had lingered less than twenty-four hours. Dr McIntosh, summoned by Eleanor, had arrived within minutes. A vigil had been kept all night. But he had died just after dawn, of a further massive stroke.

  Death, death. Echoes and echoes. Dead on the sea bed, Mamma and the Ricciardis. Za R
osetta, dead. Zu Orazio, dead. Minicu. Why did death, thoughts of death – hark back always to Minicu?

  ‘Where is Minicu?’

  ‘Ask the vultures –’ Seven-year-old self, hidden in the linen chest. Listening with beating heart. ‘The Lion has a heart of stone.’

  Where is Uncle Eric? I have just seen him go, oak-coffined, into the earth.

  He had wished to be buried in Thackton. Great-Uncle Arthur, Uncle Fred, Stanley Taylor, Bob Hardcastle and others from the foundry had all come over from Middlesbrough, travelling with Dick. Helen stood beside Maria, wearing her convent uniform and hat. Some persons had not approved of her attending. (‘It’s enough upset she found him, without she’s to see him buried, poor little lass.’) But Helen had told her: ‘I want to say goodbye to him.’ As the coffin was lowered into the earth, she held Maria’s hand. Her eyes were tight shut.

  Death – and Guy. Oh, terrible scene of a year ago. Guy, the beloved, shouting hatred and shock and pain at her. And she, full of pain herself, unable to answer. (Why did I want him to know, could I not have left it? She remembered Eleanor’s reluctance, their decision to say nothing to Eric.)

  Had the revelation, the knowledge, taken root in him since? He had seen it as, yes, terrible, but had he seen also that now he had a mother, not just an aunt by adoption but a true blood mother?

  Perhaps after (if there was for him an after) something would be possible for the two of them. Some compromise, something English. Yes, it would be English, that part of him which would allow them to know each other, be sometimes together – and never to mention the truth.

  Secrets. So many secrets. She imagined suddenly some world where they would not have been needed. Peter confessing, being forgiven. Herself, cared for, comforted, and after nine months brought to term of a boy. Some other world or time, where no child was ill-begotten. Love-child – a beautiful expression … But Guy could never have been a love-child. Only a loved child.

  Victories in North Africa. Progress of the Eighth Army. Tunisia falling to the Allies. But in all that someone had to be killed. Oh, let it not be him, Sacru miu Gesü, let it not be him. Blessed Virgin whose Son was taken from Thee this Easter season, bring me back my son …

  6

  Dick could see that at least two members of the Board wanted to hurry on the agenda, to reach as soon as possible the provisions of his father’s will. Bob Hardcastle was visibly impatient, jogging his knee against the table. Old Stanley Taylor pulled noisily at the edge of the agenda sheet.

  Dick’s fingers, lying on the open Minutes Book, trembled. He pressed down the heel of his hand firmly, licked his dry lips and gave as lucidly as possible a report of his visit the week before to Rolls-Royce. Uncle Fred explained at length about the purchase of half a dozen turret lathes, a single electric motor and shafting and a Gisholt combination valve. ‘Purchased … let’s see, the twenty-second February, and already in use.’ Then Bernard Thorpe was re-elected auditor, proposed by Dick, seconded by Stanley.

  I should have had a drink, Dick thought. A small one. Three hours, without a drop. I need whisky. That’s the damnable thing. Now, no chance of any until this is over. And it will take time. Good God, it’ll take time. Although the point’s not debatable, they will try.

  He was right. Bob was the most angry, as if in waiting for the other items to be cleared he had built up a greater head of steam. Dick thought tiredly: We should have begun with all this, got it over. I should have stuck to my guns.

  Here it was now: Dad’s bequest. Request. Bob was the first away:

  ‘There’s no question, no question. I’ll not mince my words. Stanley and I –’He broke off. Then loud with indignation: ‘There’s never been a woman on this board –’

  ‘My mother,’ Dick said. ‘There’s a precedent –’

  ‘Maimie Grainger … You know well that was on paper, lad. I’ve – we’ve no objection to paper women. They don’t talk, do they? They’ve no voice. I’ll speak plainly. We’ll not have it. And if it’s to go to the vote –’

  ‘It’s not a voting matter exactly,’ Dick said, an edge to his voice. ‘I thought I’d explained. It’s set out in the memorandum. Dad owned the company. Now I own it. And the conditions of his will are quite clear. Mrs Sabrini is to sit on the board and to have a voice. Those were Dad’s words.’

  ‘Look here, lad –’ Bob said.

  Irritated and thirsty (if only he had slipped his flask in his coat pocket), Dick interrupted him:

  ‘Don’t give me “lad”. I’m a man of forty-five.’

  ‘Ninety-five, Dick, and I’d still not care … We don’t want a woman on the board.’

  He tried again. ‘She was after all Dad’s protégée. More than that – he adopted her legally –’

  ‘I don’t care whose lass she is. Herr Hitler’s, Winnie Churchill’s, we don’t want her. Don’t want any women having their daft say, standing up here, telling us what’s to be done.’

  As soon as Bob had finished, Stanley composed his heavy face. His expression was sorrowful, mildly reproachful.

  ‘Your brother, your late brother – what would Peter have said if he’d been here today? I’m surprised at you, Dick. But you always were … Special treatment. There was a soft spot for her, wasn’t there? A Wop, a bloody Wop –’

  ‘Take that back, now. Take it back, at once –’ Dick waited, hands shaking. But Stanley gave only a shrug of his shoulders, smiling a half-hearted apology. I must have a drink, Dick thought. Nothing less than whisky could calm this alarming faintness, nausea. Bowels turned to water. Trembling. If he were to lift a hand against Stanley?

  ‘Water,’ he said, ‘pass the carafe, please.’

  ‘There’s a war on –’ Uncle Fred said (wanting, as ever, peace), trying to distract. ‘And what do I find, eh? New suit, best cloth – and then their wretched regulations. Look at this waistcoat now – no hole allowed for a watch chain.’

  ‘There’s a war on,’ Bob said. ‘All the more reason, with our lads away, to have someone knows what’s what –’

  Uncle Fred said, ‘She’s a clever lass, is Mrs Sabrini.’

  Bob turned on him. ‘Where’s the proof of it? Working in a shop in London, marrying an Eyetie crooner – I’ve not seen it. Bed and board … There’s one place for women, and it’s not on the board.’

  Dick thought: He is not going to, he will not dare. ‘It’s in bed,’ Stanley said, laughing loudly, willing the others to join in. A man among men.

  Bob banged his fist on the table delightedly. ‘I never – you can’t give out I said it –’

  The dull ache in Dick’s leg, constant companion now, turned slowly, relentlessly into pain, gnawing from ankle to calf, then up to his thigh. He changed position restlessly in an attempt to ease it. Finally he rummaged in his pocket for the tablets. ‘The water,’ he said, ‘could you pass the carafe again?’

  ‘O Death in life, the days that are no more…’ He read poetry now. At night. The nights were so long. Without whisky they would be even longer.

  The whisky. How long would it last? He could not manage on a ration. Perhaps one bottle in a couple of months, if he could get it. Although maybe it would not be so difficult. The same source as cigarettes. Black market contacts. Under the counter. Payments in kind that he could make. A year ago he would have been ashamed. But now, his need was so great. If he could not light up first thing in the morning, have a small drink, how was he to get even as far as the Works?

  Dad’s cellar, when the house in Linthorpe Road had been sold up. All that whisky. ‘I’d quite forgot,’ Dad had said before moving to Moorgarth. ‘But if there’s a scarcity we’ll not go short.’ And they had not. Most of it had gone to Dick – barely touched while Gwen was alive, but broken into in those first terrible weeks, when he had drunk several tots each night-time, knowing that after perhaps three pages, unseen, of a novel, he would be asleep (forget that forlorn waking in the small hours, the struggle for sleep which at five or six came too late).

/>   It wasn’t just the lonely double bed. He’d tried for a time sleeping in Betty’s room, until a war worker had been billeted on them. An iron-faced spinster with greasy stiff curls, and smelling unpleasantly of mothballs, she could not have been offered his and Gwen’s room. So he had gone back. He slept always in his half of the bed, as if she were still there – waking in the morning always to an empty pillow, and cold realization.

  Another day to be lived through. Jan, off to school, kissing him first, ‘See you later, Dad?’ squeezing his hand tightly. Never saying very much. They didn’t talk about Gwen’s death. In the autumn, when she was eighteen, Jan would leave to nurse. They spoke in roundabout phrases: ‘Now there’s just you and me …’ or ‘it’s been hard since November …’ Never the name ‘Gwen’. Not even Mummy or Mother. Nothing. Horribly, this never mentioning her only reinforced her absence. But he could not alter anything, could not be the first. It had come to seem impossible, for Jan apparently as much as for him.

  He thought Betty was courting, and was glad for her. A French Canadian she had met just before her mother’s death. Her letters were full of him.

  He could spend some time at Moorgarth, which after all belonged to him now. There was space, he would be more than welcome. And Maria would look after him. But he did not want to go anywhere. Least of all there. It was full of memories, and all of them happy.

  Two deaths in six months. It had been too much. And Dad’s death had affected him as Mother’s had not. (He had never been close to her, she had not been proud of him. When she had not been grumbling, she had been scaremongering.)

  And now today, this upset over Maria.

  Dad had thought so well of Maria and her business head – how well she had managed Eddie’s affairs, and the dress shop. Peasant virtues, Maria had told Dick: thrift, caution, husbanding of resources. ‘Don’t look to me for any lucky gambles, or flair …’ But it was because of this Dad had wanted her on the Board. The display of bad manners this afternoon – it would blow over. Possibly she wouldn’t interest herself too much, although it was probable she’d want to fulfil Dad’s wishes. She had loved him very much.