She picked up mixing bowl and spoons, set them to soak. Mrs Jean, all excited because of an invitation, had gone upstairs to talk to him. Sally judged that her mistress would arrive in the kitchen within the next thirty seconds. There would have been a minute to tell him, a minute of insults, another minute on the landing waiting for the upset to die down. Aye, any second now, Mrs Jean would run into the kitchen.
Sally had been with the Chandlers for many years. Originally nanny to the children, she was now responsible for the running of the household and had grown very close to the mistress of Chandlers Grange. That daft swine upstairs considered his wife to be stupid, but Sally Foster knew differently. Mrs Jean had kept herself out of harm’s way by acting in a childlike fashion. In real terms, she owned twice the brainpower of the dolt she had married.
As Sally had predicted, Jean Chandler flounced into the room and threw herself into one of the chairs at the scrubbed table. ‘One of his moods,’ she said.
‘Well, I warned you, Mrs Jean. He came back earlier on in a temper that could have ruptured an artery – banging about like a mad thing, stamping up the stairs – he sounded like an army on his own. All we needed was a couple of drums and a bugle.’
‘I hate him.’
‘Don’t waste your hate on him, Mrs Jean. He’s not worth the effort. See, if you let him know he’s getting to you, he’ll go even worse. All cowards are like that – they’re bullies, every one of them. Just stop setting yourself up as a target.’
Jean sniffed. ‘Never mind. Let’s hope he goes round to Polly Fishwick’s house – let her take the brunt of it. At least I have had my bedroom to myself since he started to associate with her. I couldn’t bear him to come near me again, Sally. I think I would kill him if he touched me.’
The housekeeper frowned. ‘Pol’s no fool, you know. If he goes too far with her, she’ll likely clout him with the poker. That was why her husband left home – he couldn’t manage her temper. Crowned him with her frying pan, she did, hit him so hard that she had to buy a new pan. She’s kept the old one, though, has it hung up like an ornament, like a medal she’s won.’
Jean felt the bubble rising in her throat. The image of Richard Chandler being assaulted by his very large and extremely energetic mistress proved too much to bear. When her giggles had died down, she spoke again. ‘Polly is living there rent-free – she’d be homeless if she attacked him.’
Sally smiled broadly. ‘Homeless or a heroine – depends how hard she hits him, eh? She’s big enough to bury him, that’s for certain sure. Aye, if she did him in, I reckon you’d let her stay there for ever, eh? For services rendered.’
‘I’d give her a gold clock, Sally.’
‘No, she’d sooner have fish and chips. Come on, cheer up, there’s worse things happen at sea. Would you like a cup of Earl Grey and a nice scone? Eh? Or something stronger, a nip of brandy?’
‘Just the tea, thanks, Sally. I don’t know what I would do without you.’
Sally Foster felt the burden acutely. She was unquestioningly loyal to Mrs Jean, but she wished that others might share the responsibility. The Chandlers enjoyed a large circle of acquaintances, yet no-one save Sally was aware of the state of their marriage. He was seldom pleasant to anyone, so Richard Chandler’s attitude towards his wife was never remarked upon. But here, in his own home, his cruelty was such that Sally sometimes worried for the dear woman’s sanity. ‘I wish you’d leave him,’ she whispered.
‘Nowhere to go,’ came the weary answer, ‘nowhere to go, Sally.’
Polly Fishwick, a woman of considerable size, retained much of the prettiness she had displayed in youth. With black hair that now required assistance to retain its raven sheen, she was blue-eyed and even-featured, though her temper did not reflect the regularity of her facial arrangement. Her husband, a woodsman who had been in the employ of Richard Chandler, had abandoned her after a concussion had laid him low for several days.
She was washing dishes at the kitchen sink, a slight smile playing on her lips as she glanced at the pan hanging to the left of her window. Dented to the point of malformation, this was the instrument with which she had inflicted injury on Derek. She kept it as a trophy, was proud of her power, was relieved to have rid herself of the lily-livered man.
The row had been about Chandler, of course. Tired of his insipid wife, he had sought solace in the company of Polly, whose cottage, at the edge of the woods, was isolated. The day of reckoning had arrived, inevitably, and the frying pan had borne the brunt of it. Ah, well, she was comfortable, nothing was expected of her and the job was a doddle. As for the frying pan – that had been easily replaced at the village store.
The back door crashed inward. ‘Pol?’
‘Hello, Richard. I wasn’t expecting you just yet, would have had a bath if I’d known you were coming this afternoon.’ She dried her hands. ‘Richard?’
‘I just want to sit down.’ He walked through to the front room and parked himself in an easy chair that was rather less than clean. Pol was a woman with a generous nature, but she did tend to stint on her housework. Still, he could sit here without catching sight of Jean and without coming under the baleful gaze of Sally Foster, the witch who ran the household.
Pol joined him. Sensible enough to know when to keep her mouth shut, she stretched herself out and toasted her toes at the fire. With the big man, it had to be a case of softly, softly, because she depended on him completely for shelter, food and clothing. He was seething. She could tell from his colour and by the expression on his face that something had upset him. In fact, he looked more than upset – the man was clearly furious.
He raised his head and looked at her. ‘Sometimes, Pol, life gets too much. Do you know what I mean?’
She didn’t. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve been fed up many a time meself. You get so as there’s no reason to carry on, don’t you?’
‘Oh no, not me. I get to the point where I wonder why other people carry on. There are two kinds of people in this world – my kind and the wrong kind.’
‘Which am I?’
He raised his eyebrows, studied her for a few beats of time. ‘Neither. You just fitted me for a while, Pol, like a jersey I felt comfortable in. But everything has to come to an end.’
She swallowed audibly. Had he found someone else willing to lie beneath that horrible, big belly? Someone else who was content to service him in any way that took his fancy? Richard Chandler enjoyed the unusual, the devious, needed the kind of services that were usually obtainable only from street girls. ‘Why?’ she managed finally.
‘Because you are going to become something else, Pol. For a start, you will be working at the grange – I want you to keep an eye on Sally Foster, because I believe she is leading my wife astray.’
Work? Pol had not worked since girlhood, had been kept by her husband, then by the ugly creature who sat opposite her. She didn’t fancy being a servant, didn’t like the idea of becoming answerable to Sally Foster or Jean Chandler.
‘There’s something else,’ he said.
Nor did she relish the idea of homelessness …
‘I want you to befriend somebody. You must be open about your relationship with me, must say that I dropped you then forced you to work as a servant in my house. Call me all the names you like. I shall keep you well provided for. Do you understand me, Polly?’
She nodded.
‘Remember Miss Forrester?’
‘Yes. Other end of the village, Claughton Cottage – didn’t she die?’
‘She did. And the house has been bought by somebody I don’t like. In a couple of months, they will move into my village – this will be the first time a house has been sold without the involvement and approval of the Chandler family. I want them out within six months.’
Polly frowned. ‘But—’
‘Don’t ask, because I’ve no idea, no plan just yet. Now, many people know about me and you, so you must make public my ill-treatment of you – tell everyone that I have taken your
home away, that I have forced you to live in a garret at the grange. Hate me. Can you do that?’
Again, she nodded mutely.
‘That will be useful in both places. Your presence at the grange will confuse my wife, may even unhinge her. Befriend Sally Foster, befriend my wife. Then, when the Martindales come to Chandlers Green, make a play for them, too. Find out everything you can about them, make notes, tell me everything.’
A garret? Polly Fishwick liked her own company, didn’t fancy sharing a house, no matter what its size. ‘Who are these Martindales?’
‘Jumped-up scrap merchants,’ he answered snappily. ‘They’ll tell you soon enough what they think of me, a load of lies and nonsense. Now, look at me.’
She obeyed, just as she always had where the big fellow was concerned.
‘You’ll have a bank account. I shall open it for you at the Trustee in Bolton and you will keep the book between deposits. Don’t tell a soul.’
‘All right.’
He sighed, allowed some of the tension to leave his body. ‘Right,’ he ordered, ‘come here, just once more for old times’ sake.’ His eyes glinted as he ordered her onto her knees. This was a useful woman and he intended to keep her under his control.
TWO
Anna Chandler, seventy-four years old and as thin as a rake, stood at the window of the gatehouse. Here she had moved when life with her nephew had become unbearable; here she lived in solitude save for the company of some two dozen chickens, a few hives of bees and a couple of geese whose temperament was as uncertain as Richard’s.
She rolled a cigarette between expert fingers and watched the dolt as he rushed past the gatehouse – bound for that slattern’s cottage, no doubt. She lit her hand-rolled indulgence and sank into an old chair. He wanted killing. He wanted a damned good hiding first, then a knife in his heart. ‘Bugger,’ she whispered. ‘Damned cruel, merciless creature.’ One day, someone would finish him off. But what could she do about him? Nothing at all. So she had walked away, had left poor Jean, Sally and the three children to endure the unendurable.
There was work to do. Wreathed in smoke, as ever, the spinster sister of Henry Chandler planned her day. The bees, drowsy now at the end of summer, were disappearing fast, would be choosing their queen for next season. But there were chickens to feed, eggs to collect, chores to be done. And there was the book to be finished, too.
The writing of A History of Candle-Making had become Anna’s reason for living. Oh, the bees and chickens provided an occupation, but her fascination with chandlery was almost an obsession. Apart from the church, this was the old lady’s focus, the fulcrum of her existence. But, as she studied today, her eye was drawn continually to the ruined factory behind her little house, that stone-built edifice in which hundreds of people had toiled through the centuries, slaves to wax and tallow, slaves to her own arrogant family. It was crumbling now, was disappearing into the ground from which its components had originally been culled. ‘And unto dust thou shalt return,’ she whispered.
She tapped her teeth with a pen, finished her smoke and ground its remnants into an ashtray. The reins of the diminishing Chandler fortune now rested in the hands of Richard Chandler. Henry was locked away in an upper room of the grange and no-one was allowed to visit him. Her blundering nephew, currently ensconced with his slovenly mistress in Woodside Cottage, was at the helm. ‘God rest all who sail and drown,’ muttered Anna. It was no use, she could not work. Sighing deeply, she picked up her pen and scribbled a few more hasty notes. Tomorrow. She would start again tomorrow …
Life for Meredith, Jeremy and Peter Chandler had been reasonably sweet thus far. With a mother who doted on them and a father who ignored them, this happy band had found themselves free to come and go as they pleased during childhood; little was expected of them and each was surprised when, in their early twenties, they began to examine the fruitlessness of their lives. There were country walks, there was riding and driving, there were dances in Bolton. But they required something more, a sense of direction, a reason to get out of bed in the mornings.
They sat in a barn at the back of the grange, Meredith on a bale, the boys perched on upturned boxes. Meredith, at twenty-three, was the eldest of the batch. An elegant girl with average looks, she was restless and had infected her brothers with her sudden need for fulfilment. Jeremy and Peter, twin boys who were just a year younger than their sister, had always done everything together. Where one went, the other was close behind, and, as both depended greatly on the common sense of their sister, this meeting was important to all.
‘What can we do?’ asked Meredith. ‘We all had a good education, and although none of us fancied university we do have brains. I can’t speak for you two, but I am just about sick and tired of this life of idleness.’
The twin boys nodded in unison. Apart from some work around the estate and at a local stables, they had not yet been gainfully employed, because Father had plans for them. No Chandler had yet attended university, and the bee in Father’s bonnet was that he would break the mould, would send his boys into professions …
‘We need a project,’ declared Meredith, ‘a future, something to occupy us. I am fed up with the country set and sick of Father. Mother droops around like a woman in decline, Father treats her like a dog – I can’t carry on here, boys. So. Any ideas?’
Jeremy, who had wanted to be a pilot, a train driver, a policeman and a jockey, could think of nothing mundane enough to be realistic. Peter, who had shared the dreams of his sibling, was similarly unaware of anything sufficiently practical to warrant suggestion. Merry would lead the way; Merry had always been the prow of the ship. Both boys stared expectantly at their sister.
‘God,’ she declared, exasperation clear in her tone, ‘has no-one else been blessed with a bit of imagination? Why am I always the one who makes decisions? If I suggested that we all become mountaineers, would you go out and buy boots and ropes?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Well, I vote we all go away and think about this. What do we want to do, where and when?’
‘We all ride well.’ Peter’s voice was hesitant; thus far, nothing had ever been expected of him, so he did not value his own notions.
‘Good point,’ said Meredith, ‘that’s the sort of thing we want, Peter, ideas, stuff we can kick around. Now, I think that’s a good concept, but we could well find ourselves stuck with the country set, crowds of spoilt infants whose mummies want rosettes on the walls at home.’
Peter pretended to shiver. ‘Brats,’ he declared. ‘I remember brats, because I grew up with two.’
‘So did I,’ chorused the others.
Meredith laughed. ‘I thought of an absolute hoot, but I don’t know whether we should take it seriously.’
‘Go on,’ begged Jeremy, ‘spit it out.’
Merry grinned broadly, giving birth to a pair of deep dimples in her cheeks. ‘A chandlery,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see it? Chandler’s the Chandlers? Only it wouldn’t be just your usual ironmonger’s shop – it would be fancy goods, too.’
‘Mother would die and spin in her grave,’ laughed Peter. ‘And Father would have a stroke. Still, it would put them both out of their misery. But remember, there’s already a general store here. We would be de trop, I fear.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ declared Meredith. ‘We wouldn’t be here, we’d be in the town. Candles are on their way back, you know. People shied away from them until recently, because buying them might have reminded them of the days before electricity. But everyone likes supper by candlelight. We could sell candelabra, too, tableware and so forth.’ She warmed to her subject. ‘Great-Aunt Anna – look at all she knows. She could advise us. She is an expert in candles.’
The boys laughed mirthlessly. Great-Aunt Anna spoke seldom and was regarded as a total eccentric. Unlike Richard, she did not carry on as if she owned the village – no, the old woman thought she owned the church and any poor incumbent who preached in it. She did the flower-arranging, attended every service, lec
tured bell-ringers about their timing, mended hymnals, chided choirboys, organized cleaning rotas, but had little to offer in the area of general conversation.
‘And what else should we sell in this shop of yours?’ Peter asked.
‘Everything else – bowls and buckets, teacups and clothes-pegs, bleach and boot polish – an everything shop. That’s what chandlers generally do these days.’
Jeremy frowned. ‘Mater and Pater would raise Cain – Abel, too. They wouldn’t want us in trade, would they? Dad is still trying to guide Peter and me towards university; as for you, Merry, I think you are expected to marry well.’ His tone was grim.
She groaned. ‘Exactly. The Dark Ages all over again – sell your daughters to the highest bidder. He wants you two to train for something specific and respectable – medicine, architecture, law – but do you have the brains or the inclination? Frankly, you have some of the former and none of the latter. We need to do something, boys. So get the thinking caps on. Come along, now, we have the delightful prospect of lunch in ten minutes.’
The boys sighed. Meals with their parents were like post-funeral wakes, silent except for the sound of cutlery against plates. Dad sat at one end of the table and ate enough for a platoon; Mother occupied the opposite seat and consumed very little. All three offspring had decided some time ago that Mother probably ate in the kitchen with Sally Foster.
They walked reluctantly back to the house, each trying to imagine a future away from Chandlers Grange, each coveting a different way of life. They washed their hands, then went to wait dutifully for their parents, Jeremy and Peter at one side of the dining table, Meredith at the other.
Jean was the first to arrive. She planted a kiss on the forehead of each of her children, then took up her position at the far end of the room. Nothing was said as the family sat and waited for its head of table to put in an appearance. Sally Foster, with the assistance of a village girl, brought in the food and placed it on the white linen cloth.
Chandlers Green Page 3