A Ruthless Need, page 6
The shiver that ran through her slim body did not show in her face as she said, ‘You do Ernest, and I will do what I have threatened more than once in the past: I shall leave you. And should I do so, you know only too well that most of the doors in the county will be closed to you. We are at war, yes, and there is now a camaraderie between landowners and their workers; but beneath all that, there is a distinction made for people such as you, Ernest, because you have never let anyone forget that you are a man of means, while at the same time trying to hide how you came by those means, and from where you originated. Strangely, had you owned up to your parentage from the beginning, you would have been accepted for yourself. I tried to tell you that so, so many years ago. But no, you are a very small man inside a large frame, Ernest, but it is a transparent frame…’
‘My God! woman, you’re going too far. I’ve stood enough; enough, I tell you.’
‘Not as much as I have, Ernest.’
‘Don’t keep repeating my name in that fashion, as if it was something sticking on your tongue, woman, you’ve…And don’t turn your back on me!’
She turned fully to him again, saying, ‘Would you rather have me continue to look at you, my face expressing my feelings?’
His large pale face was now engulfed in a purple hue and the beads of sweat were running from each side of his thick grey hair down his temples.
At one time when his anger turned him into this sweating, purple-faced lump of quivering flesh, she had felt sorry for him, she’d even pitied him for being such as he was, but not now, and not for many years. She had married him to save her father and this house. Her father had not long survived her sacrifice, and this house, she knew, hadn’t been worth the torment she’d had to pay for it. The only thing that had brought her any happiness during her married life was her children. She had him to thank for them, yet whoever she had married, there was always the possibility that she would have had children.
At the present moment she was missing them both, Andrew more than Janis, because she did not know yet if he were dead or alive, or still on the French beaches, or a prisoner of the Germans. Her son-in-law Richard had survived, yet in what condition was not yet known. Janis had gone down to Dover, where he was in hospital. All Janis knew was that he had been wounded, yet she had the consolation of knowing he was alive whereas Andrew, her dear Andrew…The tears were in her throat as she turned now, her voice unusually loud as she said, ‘You create a scene in case we might have one or two children in the house and yet you give no thought to your son and what might have befallen him…’
‘How do you know I haven’t given a thought to my son? You always imagine you know so much about people and what goes on in their heads. How would it be if he turned up now, and they brought Richard home too, and him needing quiet and nursing, with hordes of unknown youngsters running round the house? You know what happens when children come here. It’s the space; it goes to their heads, they go mad. Look at those three we had last year.’
‘These are not children as such, they are fourteen-year-olds, two boys and two girls, and they would help about the place. You’re crying out because Tom Midgely and Michael Rice have left, but do you give a thought to the house? All I have now is Cook and Florrie Rice and Nancy Bassett, when she is sober enough to come.’
It was odd, he thought as he stared at her: sometimes, as now, she talked like a housewife. He could understand her then, he could meet her halfway. But the other half of her so maddened him it made him feel insane. At times he wanted to throttle her for her calmness, and in doing so ease the torment that her presence created in him. Why he had to love a woman who scorned every inch of his body and ridiculed and demeaned every thought in his mind, he didn’t know. All right, all right; he knew what he was, nobody better, and he wasn’t going to change; it was too late. He couldn’t change. Anyway, why should he? He had fought his way up into this stiff-necked bloody set, the goal of which at first had appeared as a lodestar; but what had happened when he reached it? He had found it to be a dead, cold star. But there was no going back to the warmth of his beginnings, for he had rejected them entirely, as in turn he had been rejected. There was only one person who was any comfort to him, and that was his daughter, because in Janis he saw something of himself. She, through her marriage, had ensured her position in the magic circle and that had brought him satisfaction, coupled with relief, for after she returned from finishing school he’d had his suspicions she might be seeing the Fulton fellow again, and this he had thought he had nipped in the bud years before, and he knew that if he had caught them at it, he would have used a gun on him. But all such suspicions were swept away on the day she came and told him that Dickie Boneford had proposed. And that day he had shown her his delight, for the Bonefords were a family to be reckoned with. They were from over the border. Their estate wasn’t large, and they weren’t all that wealthy, but they had a name that went back a long way down the line, and a manor house that stood proof to it.
Things had gone well for Janis. She had played the lady almost as well as her mother; then the bloody war had to break out, and now her husband was lying in some hospital at Dover, shot to pieces, as far as he could gather. What if he died and she hadn’t given him an heir? She had been stubborn that way.
He turned about slowly and had reached the door when his wife’s voice came at him, saying, ‘Are you going to tell them?’
He paused but did not glance back towards her, then left, banging the door behind him.
His answer had been his silence, she thought. She would have to deal with the matter. Truth to tell, she didn’t want children running round the house any more than he did, but if they didn’t take them, they could be landed with a family, or members of the forces. As Clara Johnson at The Towers had found, when she made a stand against taking evacuees, she’d had to billet six soldiers, and these had turned out to be a thousand times worse than any children.
But that was an idea. She wouldn’t mind having one or two officers billeted; in fact, that would be rather nice. And Janis wouldn’t get so bored if there were young company in the house. But then, why she should be bored at all with all the voluntary work she was doing, she just couldn’t understand. Likely she was missing Richard. Of course, she’d be missing Richard. She wondered at times why she had preferred to come home rather than stay with his parents, because they were charming people. A little quaint, perhaps, but charming. But then Janis wasn’t a quiet type herself; she had too much energy. She was too much like…She cut off her thoughts abruptly, for she would not even acknowledge to herself that her daughter took after her father.
When there came a tap on the door, she called, ‘Come in,’ and Florrie Rice entered, saying, ‘The lady from the billeting office says she’s got to get the bus in fifteen minutes from the corner or it means waiting another hour and a half, ma’am.’
‘I’m coming down immediately, Florrie.’
Florrie had a cast in one of her eyes, very likely the reason why she was still working in the house and not in one of the forces. And now the eye seemed to bob up and down under her flickering eyelids as she said, ‘I should tell you, ma’am, she’s got a person with her, common-like. She’s been raising her voice. She’s elderly, sort of. I thought I had better tell you.’
‘Thank you, Florrie. Thank you.’
‘Ma’am.’ Florrie jerked her head, then went out, and a few minutes later Alicia, drawing in a long breath, followed her across the broad landing, down the shallow oak stairs into the hall, and across it to the far end and into the back study, where all…persons were shown.
She heard the person’s voice before she opened the door. ‘Not on your life. I worked in one of these from a bairn. Oh no; ta very much. I don’t mind work, but I can’t stand them kind.’
Alicia opened the door and saw ‘the person’. She was small, fattish, and what she termed, frowzy-looking. She was wearing a blue serge coat and a grey straw hat, and the face under it seemed to be made up of a pattern of wrinkles, out of which two coal-black eyes stared at her.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bradford-Brown.’ There was a definite nervous tremor in Miss Taggart’s voice.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Taggart. How can I help you?’
‘Well’—Miss Taggart glanced at her companion—‘it…it was about the children. I…I phoned you, you remember.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘Well, I got the two boys settled but…but it’s still the girls, and…well, they’re of an age, fourteen and…and…’ When she paused, ‘the person’ put in while staring unblinking at the mistress of the house, ‘What she’s trying to tell you is that they’re two young rips, man-mad, an’ they’ll take lookin’ after, an’ she thought that she’d dump me here to help see to them. But I’ve said no. Thank you all the same, missis, no. Whether you say you’ll take me or not, I have me reasons for not wantin’ to be housed in a place like this, very good reasons at that. So, as I told Miss Taggart here, she was wastin’ bus fare on me and I’d as soon as not go back to Shields. I’m not afraid of bombs; rather have bombs than some people.’
‘Mrs Price, please!’
‘Please what?’
‘Be quiet!’
‘Nobody’s tellin’ me to be quiet if I want to talk. I told you afore I come. And look, I can find me own way back.’
‘Be quiet! will you?’ Miss Taggart turned to Alicia, saying, ‘I’m sorry. But if you could take the girls.’
‘Just a moment.’ Alicia held out her hand in a gentle gesture. ‘If as this…er…’
‘Me name’s Meg Price, Mrs Meg Price.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. If, as Mrs Price says, they are girls who need some attention, I’m afraid I haven’t got the staff to see to them. Anyway, I’ve been informed…at least, I understand through the Ministry, that I might have to put up some military personnel.’ It was quite easy to lie with conviction. She was quite used to it; over the years she had made an art of it.
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, in that case I’ll just have to look elsewhere.’ Miss Taggart turned her gaze towards the window, adding in a conciliatory tone, ‘It’s such a pity, isn’t it, that your beautiful flower garden has had to be turned into a vegetable patch? Well’—she made a little hee’ing sound—‘not exactly a patch, but you know what I mean. It must be distressing for you.’
‘No, not at all; you can’t eat flowers, and we’re so glad to do anything that’s going to help the war effort.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Well, I must get away. You see, the bus…well, it passes the end of the road at two-forty-five.’
‘I understand. Good day, Miss Taggart.’
A minute later Alicia stood at the drawing-room window and watched the two visitors walking towards the drive, and as she thought, what a dreadful person, she was also congratulating herself on how neatly she had got out of that situation. If only it hadn’t been preceded by that exchange in the bedroom. Whether she liked to admit it or not, such incidents always upset her.
Turning from the window, she glanced at the French clock on the mantelpiece. A quarter to three. She smiled to herself; they would have missed the bus.
Miss Taggart leaned against the farm gate while her companion sat on the grass verge, her feet in a shallow ditch, her back to the road. They hadn’t spoken for the past five minutes. They were both tired, thirsty, and in their own individual ways, angry. Miss Taggart was angry with Mrs Bradford-Brown, who had kept her waiting for nearly twenty minutes, and for once she agreed with her companion’s opinion of the gentry: they could be very inconsiderate.
Mrs Meg Price was angry for letting herself be persuaded to come all this way for protection against only what might happen. It wasn’t that she disliked the country, it was the people who lived there she didn’t like. Well, not all of them; but it should happen that the nice, kindly ones were all full up. This last place Miss Taggart had wanted to park her was even worse than the parsonage. Parson Drinkwater had seemed a jolly enough bloke, but his wife was another madam, just like the one they had just left. She had preferred the two scamps of lads to her. Good luck to her. She hoped she had her silver locked up.
She gazed along the road. They hadn’t seen a soul during the last half hour. Everybody could be dead.
Suddenly, Miss Taggart pulled herself from the gate, saying flatly, ‘Here is someone coming.’ One was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, the other, an older woman walking with the aid of a stick. They both stopped when they came abreast of Meg, and the woman with the stick looked from one to the other and said, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve missed the bus?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Miss Taggart nodded.
‘How long have you been waiting?’
‘Oh’—Miss Taggart looked at her watch—‘gone twenty minutes.’
‘My! My! You have nearly another hour to go. Would you like a cup of tea?’
Both Miss Taggart and Meg Price exchanged glances and they both smiled and answered almost as one, ‘Yes, we would. Yes, indeed we would.’
‘Well, if you can walk for another five minutes you’ll find the kettle boiling.’ As Bertha spoke, the young girl helped the old woman up from the grass verge, and they exchanged glances and smiled. ‘’Tis hot, isn’t it?’ Meg said.
Lizzie nodded, saying, ‘Yes, it is. I like it, but’—her smile widened—‘I can see you don’t.’
‘You’re right there, lass. You’re right there. Give me a good east wind an’ I’m happy.’
Lizzie walked alongside the old woman and Bertha accompanied Miss Taggart.
Ten minutes later, the four of them were sitting round the kitchen table drinking tea, and one of them, forgetting, or at least not knowing, that politeness should stop at two scones in these meagre days, was biting into a fourth as she looked across at Bertha, saying, ‘By! I’ve never tasted anythin’ like them for a long time. You make them?’
‘No. Lizzie here does the cooking, and well at that, as she does everything else.’ Bertha smiled proudly as if she were speaking of a daughter; and Lizzie’s answering smile could have been that she was looking lovingly at a mother. And there was silence at the table for a few seconds until Bertha said, ‘Are you going back to Shields, then?’
‘Aye. There’s nothin’ for it; but I don’t mind. Although I’m a bit worried that they might have taken over me room. I locked it up with me bits and pieces. But any one of the others left in that street could be a dab hand with a hairpin, or a bit of wire. And I shouldn’t be surprised that, thinkin’ I’ve gone for good, they’ve stripped me place already. Mrs Ridley opposite, she’s all right, she said she would look after it, but she’s out most of the day workin’. So I ask you.’
Bertha stared at the older woman; then glancing towards the window, she saw John passing as he made his way to the garden shed, likely to get a hoe to do a bit of weeding in between times, as the ground was bone dry. She bit on her lip; then pulling herself to her feet and, taking up her stick, she said, ‘Would you excuse me for a minute?’ and with that she left the room.
After the door had closed behind her, Meg looked at Lizzie and asked, ‘How old are you, lass?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘You look older; you could be eighteen or nineteen.’
‘I wish the authorities could think that way. I…I would like to join the ATS. But then it would mean leaving Mam alone.’
‘What d’you do with yourself around here?’
‘Oh, I’ve got a lot to do. I go to a typing school in Durham; have done for the past year. I’m also studying music under Mam.’ She jerked her head towards the door. ‘She’s a wonderful pianist and a marvellous teacher.’
‘She said you were her companion. She’s not your mam then?’
‘No, but she’s as good as, even better. I…I’ve been very fortunate.’
‘Well, all I can say is she’s done a good job on you. She mightn’t have borne you, but she’s bred you all right.’
‘Tut! Tut!’ When Miss Taggart’s tongue clicked the old woman rounded on her. ‘What’s that for? What have I said out of place?’ She didn’t wait for an explanation, but leaned across the table and added, ‘You know what’s wrong with you, miss? You’re too stiff for a plumber’s pipe; you need a blow lamp through you.’
Lizzie had to make a firm effort not to splutter. This certainly was a funny old woman, but she liked her; yet at the same time she felt sorry for Miss Taggart, and as that offended lady went to rise abruptly from the table, she put her hand out towards her arm, staying it; and, looking up into her face, she said, ‘Have another cup of tea.’
Miss Taggart swallowed deeply, then slowly sat down again, to be surprised when the awful old woman leant towards her once again, and said, ‘’Tis sorry I am if I’ve upset you. ’Tis me tongue; it runs away with me. And I’m not used to polite society. ’Tis ignorant, I am. Me own dad used to say that: “’Tis ignorant you are, Meg,” he would say. “You’ve got no more sense in your head than them what allowed themsels to be packed into holds instead of ballast when comin’ over from Ireland.”’ She nodded and turned to Lizzie, saying, ‘Now wasn’t that terrible? But it’s true. It was the time of the tatie famine, an’ the poor devils were starvin’.’
‘Oh, Mrs Price.’ Lizzie was laughing aloud now and her face was alight as she turned to the door to see John and Bertha come into the room.
Bertha, turning to Miss Taggart, said, ‘This is my husband, Miss Taggart.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ John held out his hand.
‘And this is Mrs Price.’
John looked down into the wizened face and Mrs Price looked up into his, and they surveyed each other for a moment; then John, holding out his hand, said, ‘How d’you do, Mrs Price?’
‘I do fairly well, thank you. An’ yourself?’
‘Oh, I’m fine, fine.’
‘That’s all right then. ’Tis a nice house you’ve got here…homely. I like homely houses.’
