by The Castlefield Collector (Watch for the Talleyman) (retail) (epub)
‘But you wanted to marry her once.’
‘I did, no question about that. I did what I could. She was upset and in a terrible state, needing someone to take care of her, you understand? There was no one else as…’ Then he clamped his thin lips shut, as if he’d said too much. To Dolly’s mind he hadn’t said nearly enough.
‘Were you married too?’
‘No. I was a widower.’
‘Have you remarried since? Any more children?’
He shook his head, gave a little smile. ‘None that I know of.’
‘If you knew all along that you were my father, why did you never take an interest in me?’
Cyril looked nonplussed, as if she’d caught him on the hop, which, in a way, she had. Questions about his love for Maisie he could deal with, about fathers was another matter altogether. He’d practised what he wanted to say, had the whole tale off pat following his discussion with Maisie, but he’d given no thought to this more personal side, and the question threw him off-balance. He frowned, attempting to give it due consideration now. ‘Why should I? You had a father already. You had Calvin. He was your mam’s husband and it was only right and proper that I stayed out of the picture, once she was well again, that is and had made a full recovery. That was the decision she made and I feel sure it was the right one.’
‘So I got Calvin as a dad – instead of you.’
‘You could never have me. I wasn’t – wasn’t married to your mam.’
‘I know that, but – did you never wonder? Didn’t you ever want to know how I was? If I minded not having you as a father?’
Cyril felt lost, the whole thing suddenly quite beyond him, and he stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t think it’ll do either of us any good to rake over matters long dead. Best let sleeping dogs lie and all that.’ He walked briskly to the door, indicating that the interview, since that was what it felt like, was over.
Dolly stood up too, her face serious, her voice calm as she went to stand before him. ‘You’ve admitted you were fond of her but just tell me this. Did you love her? Did you love my mam?’
‘Aye, I did,’ Cyril said without pausing for a single heartbeat. ‘I loved her very much.’ He looked as if he might be about to say more, but then thought better of it and pressed his thin lips tightly together.
‘And if things had been different, would you have accepted me then?’
‘Eeh lass, I’d’ve been proud to have had a fine daughter such as yourself, given half a chance.’
‘Would you be now, if I asked you to?’ Some instinct made her reach out a hand to him but Cyril stiffened and, backing hastily away he flung open the door. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want from me, lass, but I can’t give it. I’m sorry but there it is. You have to understand that I couldn’t interfere. It’s all in the past, over and done with.’
‘But D— Calvin’s dead. I don’t have anyone. Nor does Mam, not now. If you and she were in love, involved in this eternal triangle, you can finally get together now, can’t you?’
‘It’s not quite so simple as it may appear.’
‘Why isn’t it?’
He was growing confused. It was all far too complicated, and not his place to explain. An eternal triangle indeed, but not the one this child imagined. ‘It wouldn’t be right for me to say anything more. I’d need to speak to Maisie, your mam before I… You were Calvin’s daughter, born in wedlock, no matter what happened since, or how you came about in the first place. Best leave it at that, eh?’ Then he almost shoved her out into the street and shut fast the door.
* * *
Heart sore and bitterly disappointed, Dolly wept silent tears as she trudged wearily away down Gartside Street and on through Byrom Street towards Liverpool Road, the walk home seeming twice as long as when she’d come in the opposite direction. But what else had she expected? That he’d throw wide his arms and clutch her to his breast, like in some silly, silent movie? Dolly didn’t truly know but somehow she hadn’t expected this. It felt as if he had rejected her a second time, as if, despite his words and the very real love he obviously felt for her mother, he didn’t want the trouble of admitting that she was his daughter, that he held any responsibility for her.
I’m not sure what it is you want, he’d said, but I can’t provide it.
So, what did she want?
Did she want a father who truly cared and loved her?
Dolly thought about Calvin, the only father she’d ever known, and of how his first instinct had always been to hit out first and ask questions afterwards, sometimes not even then. That was because he’d never really loved her. But then why should he? She wasn’t his child.
Footsteps behind her, the click of toe caps on cobbles, a familiar voice, warm with feeling. ‘You all right, Dolly?’
She slowed her pace to allow Matt to catch up, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks and fixing a bright smile to her face. ‘I’m fine, why would I not be?’
He regarded her shrewdly with his soft, brown eyed gaze. ‘You don’t look fine to me.’
He wasn’t an easy chap to fool, was Matt Thornton, and he looked so kind and sympathetic that she felt oddly comforted, just by his being there, walking quietly beside her, matching his pace to hers. ‘To be honest, I was feeling a bit sorry for myself. Not having a job and after everything that’s happened. And I was thinking, why did Mam put up with him all those years?’
Matt didn’t ask whom she meant. He’d known the family too long. ‘I don’t suppose either of you had any choice. The alternative would be starvation on the streets or else incarceration in the workhouse.’
It was true. Alternatively, Maisie would have had to risk losing her children if she’d shacked up with Cyril Duckett. Not a happy set of options.
‘And what choices do I have, now?’ she went on. ‘No job, no father – or rather my bully of a stepfather dead, and my real father…’ Dolly paused, not wanting to mention Cyril and then changed her mind. If she didn’t tell someone, she’d burst, and surely she could trust Matt, one of her oldest friends, less of a tease than the other lads. ‘Cyril Duckett, my mother’s fancy man, doesn’t want to know me apparently, so what do I do about that, eh?’
Matt cast a sideways glance at her averted face. ‘Do you reckon that’s him, your father?’
‘I believe so, but I don’t know for certain, do I?’
‘Forget him then. What does it matter who your father is?’
‘It matters to me.’
‘No it doesn’t. You can look after yourself, Dolly Tomkins. I’ve always admired you for that. Though you’re only the size of twopennorth of copper, you’ve never allowed yourself to be bullied by anyone.’
‘Anyone but Calvin, but who will now?’
Matt shrugged and grinned shyly at her. ‘You’ll cope Dolly. You’re the sort who can do anything you set your mind to. Seems so to me anyway.’
Dolly glanced up at him, great lanky lad that he was, at his soft brown eyes and self-deprecating smile and found herself offering a shy smile in return. He was right. She could indeed look after herself, no doubt about that. She’d made up her mind long since never to let anyone, after Calvin, lay a finger on her. And nothing lasted forever, not even bad things. She would find a job in the end, maybe be given her old job back, just as Calvin had after one of his drinking binges. ‘I never knew you were such a thinking chap, Matt Thornton.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dolly.’
‘Well, you’re right on this score, I will get another job or die in the attempt. I’ll make a start tomorrow by going to speak to Mr Nathan Barker himself. It’s not as if we’re strangers. We had quite a chat once, in the boiler room. If anyone can help me, he can.’
‘That’s the ticket, Dolly. Never say die. Come on, I’ll buy you a bag of chips to celebrate.’
So what if Cyril Duckett didn’t want to publicly acknowledge her as his daughter? He wasn’t a bad chap, even if he was a bit grey looking and dull.
�
��Just think,’ Dolly said later, as they strolled along, companionably eating chips with their fingers out of vinegar-drenched newspaper, ‘things could’ve been much worse. What if my real father had turned out to be Nifty Jack, for instance? Lord, I’d’ve slit me own throat.’ No, things were nowhere near as bad as they might be.
* * *
Evie was in despair. She lay on the sofa in the drawing room, as she did most afternoons after lunch, with a cold compress on her head. Ever since that dreadful confrontation with the Fitzgeralds she’d been plagued with headaches. She hadn’t set foot out of the door in days – weeks for all she knew – since she’d quite lost track of time. Not that she wanted to see anyone. Evie felt utterly devastated; rejected, cast out, unwanted: by Freddie, by his family, by her father, by everyone. Even Mumsie had been less than sympathetic.
‘But darling,’ she’d said. ‘Daddy and I didn’t go in for all that fandango of a fancy wedding. We eloped to the Riviera; much more fun. Why don’t you and Freddie do the same? You’d be the talk of the town.’
‘I have no wish to elope.’
‘But it’s so romantic, darling.’
‘Not to me it isn’t. It smacks of failure. I want a proper wedding with six bridesmaids and that wonderful gown I’ve had designed specially.’ Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of her loss. The dress would never get made now. Strangely, she’d thought very little about Freddie since the wedding had been called off, but she was simply haunted by the memory of that beautiful dress with its handkerchief hemline, silver tissue sleeves and veil. ‘I deserve a proper wedding, and Pops is utterly heartless to refuse to give me one just because some man at the mill got himself killed. For God’s sake, why should I be held responsible for these people?’
‘Papa simply wants to do the right thing, sweetie. What about Italy then? You and Freddie could travel on the Orient Express.’
At which point, Evie had stormed out of the room, since everyone refused to see her point of view.
Now, as she heard the front doorbell ring, she didn’t even consider getting up to answer it. There were maids, and her mother to do that, for heaven’s sake. When it rang a second time, she remembered that it was the maid’s afternoon off and Mumsie would be up in the loft dabbling with her paints, as usual. Sighing with irritation and feeling harangued on all sides, Evie got swiftly to her feet, crossed the hall in three strides and flung it open. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh! Good afternoon, I was wondering if I might speak to Mr Barker. Mr Nathan Barker.’
‘I know who you mean. My father isn’t at home,’ Evie snapped.
‘I rather hoped he might, it being a Saturday and the mill closed. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. When would be an appropriate time to call again, do you reckon?’ Dolly was doing her best to curb the roughness of her accent and to be as polite as possible. Her future may depend upon it. Since the girl holding the door didn’t respond, she cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Would tomorrow be convenient, after chapel perhaps?’
Evie’s gaze was fixed upon the caller. At length she frowned and said, ‘Don’t I know you? Haven’t we met somewhere? Silly me, we couldn’t possibly have.’ Thinking, where on earth would I meet such a person? And then just as Dolly turned to go, it came to her. ‘Oh, I remember. You were the girl who saved me from that angry mob.’
‘Aye, that’s right. I was wondering if it would come to you.’
Evie dithered. A part of her knew that she should ask the girl in. It was only good manners after what she’d done, but another part rebelled at the very idea of inviting this person, from such a dreadful neighbourhood to even set foot over the threshold. ‘Well, I’m sorry but my father is out. Probably playing golf, or at his club. May I take a message?’
Dolly didn’t know what to do. Should she take the risk? It was so important to get it right, and yet time was of the essence. She couldn’t afford to be out of work for too long. ‘Perhaps you could say that Dolly Tomkins called, and she asked to beg leave to have a word with him. I’ll call tomorrow, after chapel, just in case he’s free.’
* * *
Dolly was even more nervous the following day, as if the wait had played upon her nerves. Yet was it any wonder with Mr Barker’s Rolls Royce parked out in the street? He never failed to drive to chapel of a Sunday, though there was little need for him to prove how important a figure he was, mill money largely being what kept the chapel going. They certainly couldn’t depend on the annual sale of work. But should she tackle him here, in the porch after the service perhaps, or wait till he got home? Just trying to make this simple decision caused her to go all wobbly inside. So much so that Sam remarked upon it as she handed out hymn-books and kept dropping them, seeing as how she was all fingers and thumbs.
‘What’s up, Dolly?’ he whispered. ‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence. Or have you been at your dad’s whisky?’
She gave him a fierce glare, not in the mood for his silly jokes, but readily accepted his invitation to sit with him, thankful to escape being in the family pew with her mam and Willy. Dolly wondered why Aggie wasn’t beside Sam as she so often was, but didn’t like to ask. While the congregation sang ‘All Hail the Power’, Dolly took the opportunity to tell him, in low whispers, all about her intention to ask for her job back.
‘I need to explain properly how it all came about. I’m sure that once he understands, it can all be put right. All, that is, apart from me dad – Calvin. We can’t bring him back.’ She really must learn not to call him ‘Dad’ any more.
Sam was staring at her, wide eyed. ‘You’re going to go to the gaffer’s house? Walk up to his door, bold as brass, and ask for your job back?’
‘I’ve already done it once, yesterday, but he wasn’t in. I’m scared he might not agree to see me now he’s been warned, so I thought I’d try and catch him after chapel. But if I don’t manage to catch him, I’ll have to.’
Sam was filled with admiration, yet he could see the fear in her eyes, the way her small mouth trembled. It had ever been so with little Dolly. She’d sound as fierce as a lion but inside she’d be quaking. He could always tell, had been obliged to step in and protect her from her own recklessness on a number of occasions in the past. He supposed she was the nearest he had to a sister, them being neighbours and growing up together, so he felt responsible for her.
Aggie was his girl, of course, or he used to think so. She’d been acting a bit cool lately, and he couldn’t quite make out why. But then it wasn’t difficult to offend Aggie. One day she’d cut him dead and the next be sweet as pie and all over him again. Today he’d intended to walk her home, the long way via the canal, but since she’d turned up her nose about sitting with him during the service, opting to stay with her family for once, he thought a bit of jealousy might do her good. ‘I’ll walk round there with you, if you like,’ he said to Dolly.
‘What? Oh no, Sam, there’s no need for you to get involved. I don’t want you in lumber too.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t interfere. I’m not taking any risks with me own job but I’ll be on hand, should you need a shoulder to cry on, if it all goes wrong like.’
Dolly was filled with gratitude. ‘Oh, thank you Sam. Thank you so much. What a friend you are.’
Sam looked into her shining blue eyes and felt himself swell with self-importance and an odd sort of protective warmth. It felt good to be of use. And Dolly looked different somehow, not half as small and funny-looking as she used to be. She turned away to speak to someone and he caught a sideways view of her profile. Flipping heck, he thought, she’s even getting breasts, quite pert and firm they are. Dolly Tomkins was growing up, looking almost pretty. Happen he’d been messing about with the wrong sister.
As she turned back to him with a grateful smile, Sam cleared his throat, which seemed to have gone dry. ‘Aye, well, it’s no skin off my nose. Anyroad, yer not so bad.’
Chapter Nine
The service seemed to go on interminably wit
h the minister prattling on about the grand total of the collections from last year’s Messiah Sunday, in comparison with other chapels in the neighbourhood, and how he hoped for them to do even better this time around. And there was Cyril Duckett leading the choir as usual, looking remarkably pleased with himself. Dolly stared at him for a long time and felt nothing, except that he looked faintly ridiculous flinging his arms about as they sang ‘Fling Wide the Gates’. Surely if he really was her father she’d feel some sort of kinship with him, some emotion?
When it was finally over, Mr Barker spent a long time talking to the chapel superintendent and she didn’t dare to interrupt. And then without warning, he climbed into his Rolls Royce and drove away, every eye following him, caps being touched in deference.
‘I’m going to his house now,’ Dolly said, a grim note in her voice.
‘And I’m coming with you.’
They walked together, not exactly hand in hand or arm in arm, but Dolly was acutely aware of Sam’s presence by her side, the warmth from his body as he swung along beside her. Aggie’s face had been a picture as they’d left the chapel, and was it any wonder? He looked so handsome, and so smart in his best Sunday suit that it filled Dolly with pride just to be seen out walking with him. She wished it was more than that, that they were actually ‘walking-out’ or ‘doing a bit of courtin’’ as her mam would say. Still, who knew what might happen later?
Mr Barker did agree to see her and she was led down a gloomy passage into the depths of the house by a sour-faced maid. The interview wasn’t an easy one, taking place in his book-lined study with him seated behind a big mahogany desk and Dolly hovering on the rug in front of it, like a naughty schoolgirl. He wouldn’t look at her properly, keeping his gaze fixed on his steepled hands, as if she were nought but an interruption.
She took a deep breath and told her tale, the whole sorry story of the thrown spindle and the accident from start to finish and he sat listening to her without interrupting, impassive throughout. Dolly interpreted this as genuine interest.