‘Same here,’ groaned Aggie. ‘Australia, here I come. Can you imagine living over a chippy? Drunks singing every Saturday night and throwing up all over the pavement, a back yard full of spuds and dead fish, marrowfat peas soaking in buckets everywhere. If I never see a bag of chips again I’ll not be sorry.’
‘Well, you can always have steak pudding for a change,’ laughed Marie.
Aggie, a short, round girl with a mop of fiery red curls, thumped Marie on the arm. ‘It’s all right for you, legal eagle, loads of good-looking young men all over the office, a nice clean job with a typewriter. You’ve got no idea what it’s like living with a spud-chipper in one hand and a bowl of batter in the other. You’re with decent folk all day, too.’
‘You must be joking. They’re all dirty old married men. Legal profession? They spend half their time in somebody else’s bed, then the other half representing folk who’ve also been in somebody else’s bed. And if one more of them puts a hand on my bum, I’ll shove paper clips up his nose.’
‘So,’ sighed Josie, ‘what with cod, nylons and arse-gropers, we’re all in a bad way. The bloody circus isn’t due for months, so we can’t run away, because we haven’t the money to get far enough from home.’
Marie leaned back in her chair and eyed a group of likely lads across the Bodega Coffee Bar, gave them the once-over, decided they weren’t worth the bother – tattoos, daft haircuts and chewing gum. ‘My mam and dad are running away,’ she informed her friends, ‘but not with the circus. The ringmaster took one look at my dad and said no, they already had one and they were finding it difficult to train. They’re moving to a house up in Chandlers Green and I’m not going with them. No, that’s not quite true. I will go with them just to help out, then I’m coming back to Emblem Street.’
‘On your own?’ asked Aggie.
Marie nodded.
Aggie and Josie looked at each other, then eyed Marie. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Josie.
‘Depends,’ replied Aggie. ‘Were you thinking about Elvis gyrating in his tight jeans?’
‘No, I was thinking about Marie needing company in Emblem Street. She doesn’t keep fish in her back yard and she doesn’t wear American Tan fifteen denier at four and eleven a pair.’
‘But I keep vinegar in the kitchen,’ said Marie, a bubble of excitement rising in her chest. ‘The rent’s cheap, especially split three ways. We could have a party – you’ve got a Dansette, haven’t you, Josie?’
‘I have indeed, but I’ll have to leave Frank Sinatra with my mother, or she’d only pine.’
The three sat in silence for several minutes. The idea of moving away from home was awesome, as each girl realized that she would miss her family. But their friendship had always been close and each knew that she could be happy in the company of the other two. And there came a time when living with family didn’t feel right any more, when striking out in a new direction was a necessity.
‘I’ll still have to fry chips till I find something else,’ said Aggie.
‘That’s all right,’ answered Marie, ‘we haven’t a lot of dogs in our street.’
Josie looked up to the ceiling. ‘Well, they won’t be pleased, but with you two behind me and without my mother wittering on, I might even leave the hallowed M&S.’
‘No,’ gasped Aggie, ‘you offend St Michael – that’ll be sacrilege. You won’t even get Purgatory. Your soul will belong to Satan. More coffee, anyone?’
Marie Martindale was delighted. She could keep her home and she could put Mam out of her misery. To celebrate, she allowed herself extra sugar in her drink and bought everyone a Penguin. She didn’t even frown when one of the tattooed gum-chewers gave her a wink. Would Mam leave the beds? How much furniture would she let Marie have? Of course, one of the bedrooms would have to be shared. Oh well, it was a new beginning and she was in a generous mood, so she returned the wink …
Richard Chandler was blazing; in fact, his wife would not have been surprised had she seen smoke coming out of his nose. She shuddered to think about his blood pressure, because he was positively scarlet about the cheeks, with some interesting purple patches on the forehead. ‘They refuse to go to university,’ he yelled. ‘How many people would turn their backs on a chance of a proper education? They don’t know they’re born and that’s their trouble. They refuse to work on the estate, too – I could find them something if they insist on working.’
Jean put down her sewing; it had been her experience thus far that her husband reacted badly if he did not have the full attention of his audience. ‘They have never wanted university, Richard. They would be quite happy to work their way up through an accountancy firm, or—’
‘I told them they could have a couple of years off to decide on which course they wanted. No-one told me that they weren’t interested in doing degrees.’
Jean held her tongue; she had heard the boys telling him exactly that, trying to explain that they wanted to work in offices, but he had not heard them, had never listened. Richard was a talker; he pontificated ceaselessly and seldom paused to admit a reply.
‘I lay this at your door,’ he roared now. ‘Namby-pamby lads, the pair of them. No guts and no backbone.’
That was another of his charming traits – he was never to blame for anything, while his wife, who lived life so quietly as to be almost silent, was the cause of all the ills in Chandlers Grange.
‘You have spoilt them – all of them. God alone knows where that blasted girl has gone. She could be the ruin of me, might get up to all kinds of mischief. I expect you know where she is, eh? Keeping her safe from her dragon father, are you? Now the twins want to be off. Stood there bold as brass, the pair of them, telling me they plan to leave home.’
Jean swallowed a bubble of grief, but took care to keep her face expressionless. She must not react, must not allow him to catch a glimpse of the fear, the anger and the hatred she felt. There was in her heart a strong urge to rush across the room, pick up the poker and use it as Polly Fishwick had used the frying pan … Oh, God, how she wished she dared.
‘Nothing bothers you, does it?’
‘I try to keep my feelings under control,’ she replied carefully.
‘I noticed,’ he snapped, ‘which is why I left you to your virginal bed. You were never a wife to me. Never.’
Her eyebrow raised itself and she wished that she had exercised more control over those small, disobedient muscles, but he failed to notice, as he was ranting on again about the boys, about disinheriting his children, about selling up and moving abroad, about ingratitude.
It occurred to Jean – and not for the first time – that there was one murder in every human. This was her murder, her sin not yet committed. Not that she would ever gain the strength or the courage, but yes, she wished him dead, buried and rotted down. The best service Richard could possibly perform for mankind would be as compost, yet she doubted that his heart would return to the soil, because it was as immovable as Mount Sinai.
‘There are going to be changes,’ he said now. ‘I want rid of Nanny Foster for a start. She can have Polly Fishwick’s cottage and she can come to work every day – if you insist on continuing to employ the woman.’
Jean’s heart stopped, then started up in top gear. This was the moment she had dreaded for years. The room began to darken as he raved on about Sally, about how she was getting on a bit, how she deserved her own home, her own life. Jean Chandler had taken enough; this was the end, the finishing post. With trembling hands, she picked up her sewing and rose from her seat.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he roared.
‘To pack,’ she replied mildly. Yes, she would do as Aunt Anna had done, as Meredith had done, as the boys would surely do soon.
‘What? And where will you live? The Salvation Army?’
Unsteady on her feet, she walked to the door. ‘I shall move into the cottage with Sally,’ she replied eventually. ‘There is room enough for two people, as was proved
while Polly’s husband lived there – until she tried to kill him, of course.’
‘Stop!’ he shouted.
But she was already closing the door in her wake. Oh, the evil of that man, the sheer badness of him. He knew full well that his wife depended for her sanity on the housekeeper, so he was moving her out, was deliberately taking away the last piece of Jean’s very fragile scaffolding.
He stood in the centre of the room, eyes bulging, heart rattling in his chest, mind buzzing like a bee in a jar, his mouth wide open. They were all going. Even she was going, the fragrant one, the saint, the heroine of the piece. He would be left here with Polly Fishwick, with daily servants and with his father, who was as mad as a whole meadow of March hares.
With everyone leaving at once, the village would notice; children maturing and moving on was one thing, but the wife absenting herself simultaneously would surely become the object of huge gossip, especially when said wife was occupying a woodsman’s cottage with the ex-housekeeper. Bugger. He would have to lose face, but would it not be preferable to do that inside the house where he could contain it? That would surely be better than becoming the laughing stock of the whole area?
In the hall, Jean placed herself in a chair and wished that her limbs would stop trembling. This was the day she had dreaded, because she was being forced to walk away from all she had endured, so rendering worthless her life thus far. She had tolerated his madness so that her children would be provided for, had stayed in this house, in this marriage, in order to outlive him, to be here on the day of his death, to pick up the money she had earned by tolerating this hateful man. She had even said little when he had locked the old man upstairs, when he had forbidden the family to visit him. Compensation, it should be termed. Yes, they were all due some compensation.
The door opened and he stepped out of the drawing room. ‘Forget all that,’ he said, his tone gruff. ‘Nanny Foster probably feels safer here. The house near the woods is possibly too isolated for her and she may become nervous.’
Something stirred in Jean’s breast, not quite fury, but certainly approaching it. She had taken enough of this man. Lifting her head, she looked him full in the face, held his gaze while she rose from the chair. Without a word, she walked past him and up the stairs, her lower limbs gaining strength with every step.
Confused, Richard Chandler dropped into the seat recently vacated by his wife. She had never defied him before, was not the contentious sort. Shy to the point of diffidence, Jean Chandler could not say boo to a goose – in fact, she had been terrified of the creatures when he had kept some behind the house. He recalled how he had laughed while watching her running from the gander, an ill-tempered beast who had taken delight in pecking those who had feared him. For a moment he could not remember what had happened to them – oh yes, Aunt Anna had taken them, hadn’t she?
Upstairs, Jean sat at her dressing table and stared at the white face in the mirror. Today, something had finally died in her. Or had she given birth to strength, was she ready to move on? She had no particular talents and could not imagine herself surviving outside the framework that was so familiar. But her children, too, were a part of that structure, and if they were all to leave, then the meaning would be gone.
Meredith was staying at the Pack Horse. She had placed an advertisement in the local press, was looking for other young women who wanted to change their lives. ‘You are too old,’ Jean informed her reflection. But was she? She was forty-four years of age. Every one of the past twenty-four years had been spent in Richard’s company, in this house, with his father. Henry was now virtually locked away, but he remained at the grange, could be heard laughing crazily in the middle of the night, was still feared by women.
So, here was the choice. She could stay with two madmen and a whore, or she could leave in the company of her boys. Perhaps she might even be useful in Meredith’s venture, whatever that was going to be. The clock ticked on, each beat measuring another irretrievable second, another slice of life gone for ever. It was probably time to go …
Sally Foster put down her dish mop and sat by the kitchen fire. Her head was in a whirl and she did not know where to begin to organize her thoughts. Mrs Jean had told her, calmly, that she was leaving the grange and that Sally, too, should go. There was some vague talk of a business, of a house in town, of Meredith’s having plans, but Sally could not take it in. The twins were leaving too, it seemed.
‘You won’t be here for much longer, anyway,’ Mrs Jean had said, ‘because Richard wants you out. He knows that you and I are good friends, and he is determined to find a way of punishing me because the children are going.’
Sally, at fifty, felt too old for all this. For twenty-three years, Chandlers Grange had been her home. She had cared for the children, then had taken over the reins of the household, and, in spite of the master’s antipathy, she was settled. The routine of the place was printed indelibly into her system; she knew every creak of every floorboard, every crack in the ancient plaster. Had Mrs Jean finally been deprived of her reason?
Sally answered her own unspoken question. No. Jean Chandler was getting out because her children were leaving. The man had ranted and raved once too often, had threatened to move Sally out, was bringing his blowzy mistress into the house. All these factors had weighted the scales so heavily that Mrs Jean could take no more.
The unknown was always frightening and, as the years crept on, security became increasingly important. ‘You’ll have a much better chance of being cared for if you join the missus,’ she told herself in a whisper. The concept of remaining here in the company of two lunatics and a slut was not appealing. It was the end of an era and it had to be faced.
The door opened and Richard Chandler’s face insinuated itself into the gap. He never entered the kitchen; it was the province of women and was, therefore, beneath his contempt. He blinked and gazed around the room as if he had not seen it before, then brought the rest of himself into the area. ‘Er … good afternoon,’ he said.
Sally remained seated. ‘Did you want something, Mr Chandler?’
He crossed the room and placed himself in the chair opposite hers. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ he began.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ He folded his arms across his very large belly. ‘My wife has decided that she must leave, because Meredith has gone and the boys, too, will be moving out soon. She has the notion that she must follow them in order to take care of them. Nonsense, of course.’
She attempted no reply.
‘Has she discussed this with you?’
Sally’s brain performed a few rapid calculations and decided that this man should know as little as possible. ‘No,’ she stated.
‘Well, I wondered whether you might persuade her to stay.’ He hated crawling, but this had to be done.
‘I am not sure that I can influence her decision, Mr Chandler. If she has made up her mind, I can’t change it for her.’
The man swallowed, imagined that he tasted bile. ‘I could make it worth your while,’ he said quietly. ‘I dare say five hundred pounds might prove useful as a little nest-egg? Plus a small increase in salary, sufficient to add to your savings with an eye to retirement?’
He was so ugly. Sally tilted her head to one side and studied him. At over six feet in height, he ought to have carried his weight well, but he did not, because everything had settled around and above his waist, so that he had the overall shape of a very uncomely barrel. Balding and with his eyes set into pockets of fat, he was almost porcine in appearance. Small, thready veins had exploded beneath the skin of his face, tell-tale testament to a life devoted to food and strong drink. ‘No, thank you,’ she said at last.
‘A thousand?’ The eyes seemed to shrink even further as he spoke.
‘No.’
‘I could throw you out now.’ The tone had become menacing.
‘Then do it, Mr Chandler. I have many friends in Chandlers Green and they will certainly shelter me when I tell
them how I have been mistreated. Just say the word and I shall pack my things.’
He was defeated and he knew it. This was the Sergeant Alfred Martindale scenario all over again, a gross misunderstanding that could alter Richard’s life beyond retrieval. ‘Then go with her,’ he said as he struggled to his feet.
‘I shall, Mr Chandler. Anything else?’
‘No.’ He left the room and slammed the door.
Sally Foster felt sick. It was as if he had contaminated her kitchen and she had a strong urge to throw out everything that had been edible until ten minutes ago. The man was poison. In a few minutes, she would go upstairs to inform Mrs Jean about the attempted bribery. Yes, it was time for both women to leave Chandlers Grange. A smile threatened, but she squashed it before it was born. The concept of Polly Fishwick taking over as housekeeper was hilariously funny, yet terribly sad. The grange was finished, because all sense was about to walk out of its front door within the very near future.
Paul Butlin, vicar of St Augustine’s, kept a wary eye on Miss Anna Chandler. To the untrained watcher, she probably looked as she normally did – odd, eccentric, badly dressed – but he saw beyond the immediately visible. Yes, she was a character, and no, he had never met anyone quite like her. He was almost fond of her. In spite of the proprietorial air she wore while organizing his church, this was one good woman. And she was upset. Stiff and straight of back, demeanour almost as usual, yet there was something extra today, something … unhappy.
She turned quickly and looked at him, her head seeming to swivel within the hat, as if the hat were a fixture and the skull a mere passing phase. ‘Yes?’ Her eyebrows raised themselves. Here was the mistress speaking to a mere employee, yet he could not manage to dislike her.
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Chandler?’
‘What?’ The syllable was delivered crisply. She had been engaged in decorating the altar and was not pleased by the interruption – even men of God should know their place. She laid her basket of leaves on the floor. ‘I am busy,’ she snapped, ‘trying to express the arrival of autumn.’
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