He grinned. Marie would see it and say it, would go through life without compromise, without making room for those she judged to be wrongdoers. She was educated without being threatening, intelligent, yet not superior in her attitude. A ‘good egg’, according to Meredith, a ‘corker’, in Jeremy’s eyes, though Jeremy seemed more taken with Josie, which pleased Peter enormously.
‘What’s funny?’ she demanded.
‘I’ll tell you when I know you better.’
He already knew her well, of that she felt certain. She had a distinct feeling that he had been thinking about her … And she knew him, too, which was strange, as they had not met until recently. Some of the people from school she had scarcely known at all, even after many years spent in the same classrooms, yet she felt as if she had known Peter Chandler for ever. Perhaps she was growing up at last. ‘I think a lot,’ she said eventually, needing to respond to his quizzical expression. ‘I have a mind that never seems to stop, as if there’s a treadmill in there—’
‘And you keep striding on?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
This amused him – the idea of Meredith and Marie coming together was a fascinating one, because neither woman promised to make room for the other. Sparks might fly. Sparks in a candle factory? Danger, indeed …
‘Right.’ There was an edge to her tone. ‘Tell me what is so funny.’
‘You are.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You and my sister, irresistible force and immovable object.’
‘You calling me stubborn?’
He pondered. ‘I shall be kind. You are determined – Merry is the stubborn one. I can imagine either or both of you being reckless. My father is very disappointed in his daughter – she will not be moulded.’
‘You and Jeremy have let him down, too.’
His smile faded slowly. ‘He has let himself down, Marie. I suppose you enjoy a happy family life?’
Marie thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I have been happy at home, though we had a bad time when my mother was ill – she had to go into the TB hospital. That’s why Dad bought the house up on the moors. Dad works hard – so did Mam until the TB – they deserve to go up in the world. But your father would stop them if he could.’ She stared straight into Peter’s clear eyes. ‘There’s hatred there.’
He nodded.
‘Why?’ she wondered aloud. Peter had already admitted ignorance, while she knew a little, but not enough. ‘Dad got medals.’
‘They all did. You survived – you got a medal. You died, you got a couple.’
‘He got the VC and Bar. Mam says he got them for unusual bravery, but I think it’s all tied up with your father.’ She grimaced. ‘I wonder what my dad would say now if he caught me consorting with the enemy?’
‘Ditto,’ was the reply.
Marie grinned mischievously. ‘We can find out about some of that when you drive me home. Are you brave enough to meet my parents? If they are in, of course.’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ He was brave enough for anything, wasn’t he? He was leaving home, was escaping from a life that was no longer palatable, was reasonably certain of his mother’s safety, because Nanny Foster would always look after Mother. Becoming an adult was not a smooth process, then, as it involved a great deal more than simply getting through the years. Growing older and wiser seemed to happen in spurts that were triggered by events. ‘Into the lions’ den?’ he asked, his air deliberately innocent.
Marie thought about that one. ‘Lions? Mam and Dad are hardly members of the big cat family, though my mother has been known to bite a few heads off from time to time … No. The only time I ever saw Mam really lose her rag was when she got short-changed in the Co-op.’
‘A true northerner, then.’
She nodded. ‘Hearts of gold, both of them. Dad has a good head for business, though he would never cheat anyone, I’m sure. They are just ordinary people.’
‘Hardly,’ he replied, his voice almost inaudible. He cleared his throat. ‘No, you come from no ordinary stock, Marie Martindale.’
And she knew she was hooked, because she was blushing.
‘Get yourself outside of that,’ commanded Leena. ‘That’s what I call an apple pasty, but our Marie calls it something foreign. Now, what with us going up in the world to Chandlers Green, I shall have to come over all Cordon Blue.’
‘Bleu,’ said Marie. ‘It’s French.’
Leena laughed. ‘There’s nowt French about my flaky pastry – I learnt it from that there Mrs Beeton, her as goes round with umpteen eggs in her basket and feeds the five thousand in every recipe.’ She sniffed. ‘Take three pounds of strawberries, indeed. I don’t know where Mrs Beeton worked, but they never had rationing.’
‘She was pre-war,’ offered Marie.
‘I’m pre-war and all.’ Leena stood to attention, saluted and grinned. ‘But I never knew anybody as could afford three pounds of bloody strawberries.’ She glanced at herself in the overmantel mirror, patted her hair into place. There was gentry at the table, so she wanted to make sure that she looked tidy. And she should stop swearing; she often swore when she was nervous.
‘Lovely,’ declared Peter Chandler when he had swallowed the first mouthful. ‘Hang on to your mother, Marie,’ he advised. ‘I know people who would pay a lot of money for cooking like this.’
He was doing excellently, Marie decided. And so was Mam, because she hadn’t turned a hair when introduced to the son of the enemy. ‘When’s Dad due in?’ she asked now, ‘because we’ve left three people sitting on the chippy wall up Tonge Moor and they need the car.’
‘Aggie and Josie?’ asked Leena.
‘And Jeremy.’ Peter brushed a few crumbs off his shirt front. ‘It was my turn for the car.’
Leena poured herself a cup of tea, dark brown and strong, just the way she liked it. ‘So, you’ve a brother and a sister?’
He nodded. ‘Meredith is the senior citizen – my twin and I are mere apprentices. Merry plans on dragging us all through the mire while she starts up her business empire.’ He managed not to flinch when Marie kicked him, the assault concealed beneath a low-hanging tablecloth. Quickly, he realized that the older Martindales knew nothing of the plans to involve their daughter in Meredith’s plots. ‘She is going to start a business.’
‘Oh.’ Leena sipped at her strong brew, stopped herself from blowing on the surface in order to cool it. ‘What’s she going into?’
‘Bankruptcy,’ replied Peter seriously. ‘Or millionairedom – there are no half measures with my sister.’
‘I like the sound of her,’ mused Leena. ‘That’s always been my Alf’s philosophy – in for a penny, in for a pound, bugger the consequences.’
The front door flew open, banged against the wall.
‘There should be a law passed against your father’s treatment of doors,’ pronounced Leena.
Alf’s voice floated up the hallway. ‘I’ve shifted more muck today than I’ve seen in a lifetime. Chorley New Road? You want to see how they live behind them posh bloody bay windows …’ His words died as he entered the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he said.
Peter stood up and held out his right hand. ‘Peter Chandler,’ he said.
The older man blinked just once. ‘Nay, you don’t want to be shaking hands with me, lad.’
The women, uncomfortable, seemed to stop breathing. This was Richard Chandler’s son – was the situation going to become awkward? Peter’s hand remained where it was, steady and outstretched.
‘I’m mucky,’ explained Alf.
Marie felt her shoulders as they relaxed; her dad had not let her down, would never fail her. ‘Peter’s not frightened of a bit of dirt, Dad,’ she said. ‘He’s mucked out more stables than we’ve had hot dinners.’
Alf grinned, wiped his palm against his sleeve, then shook the visitor’s hand. ‘Horse-muck’s nowt,’ he insisted. ‘It’s just processed grass. Look what it does for roses. But where I’ve been today – well, it was a dump. Doctor’s hou
se, too. Nice to meet you, son. Come on, girl, pour me a mug of tea while I wash my hands – and put some water in it.’ He smiled at the visitor. ‘You want to watch my Leena’s tea. Thicker than treacle – I’ve seen spoons melt in it.’
He went into the scullery, throwing a final remark over his shoulder. ‘I smell like a sewer – slipper baths for me tonight, Leena.’
Marie smiled inwardly. She was proud of her mam and dad, because they knew how to behave. They might never have been the smartest dressed or cleverest of folk, but they were sound, reliable and decent.
Alf returned to the table and picked up his cup of weaker tea. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So you’ve been driving my daughter round in that ramshackle contraption outside, have you? Has it got brakes?’
Peter put down his apple pasty. ‘Is it still there? If it is, then the answer is yes. Well – the handbrake works, at least. But to stop it, Marie and I have to put our feet through the holes in the floor – it comes to a halt eventually.’
Marie watched her father’s face, saw his growing affection for Peter Chandler, witnessed the moment of its inception. ‘There’s a lot to be said for clogs in them circumstances,’ announced Alf. ‘See, with clogs, you get irons underneath and a good wooden sole. You can’t beat a good wooden bottom – can you, Leena?’
‘Eeh, I wouldn’t know,’ said the lady of the house. ‘I’ve never had a wooden bottom.’
‘You have. I remember your corsets.’
The four of them dissolved into laughter and Marie, her eyes moving over her companions, realized yet again how fortunate she was. Peter, in company that brought him out of himself, was clearly at ease, while her parents, bless them, were just themselves. As the laughter died, she could not prevent herself. ‘I love you two,’ she cried, wiping tears of glee from her eyes.
‘She only loves me for me pasties,’ said Leena. ‘And I can’t fathom what she sees in her dad – can you, Peter?’
Oh yes, he could see. He saw all the way through town and on his way up Tonge Moor, saw how family life should be. The short visit to Emblem Street had served to underline what he already knew – that he, Meredith and Jeremy had never had a family. Oh, there had been times, years ago, a lifetime ago, when things had ticked over, when parents and children had played together. Then the drinking had begun.
He turned a corner and drove towards the chip shop. Grandfather, too, had been a drinker. Now, his mind addled after years of indulgence, Henry Chandler inhabited a twilight world, a place in which the tormenting of other humans was his sole hobby. And Richard was going the same way. Mother was a good woman whose life had been destroyed by her husband. Meredith had escaped, he and Jeremy would be leaving, as would Mother and Nanny Foster. What a mess.
He pulled in at the kerb and was pounced upon by his twin. ‘Where have you been?’ asked Jeremy. ‘Aggie has been called into the shop and Josie left ages ago – isn’t she wonderful? But what kept you?’
When his brother had settled beside him, Peter spoke. ‘I have been sitting at a table with three decent people, Jer. I had an apple pasty and tea strong enough to kill every taste bud on my tongue. We talked and laughed. A rented house with a big coal fire and … and love.’ He turned his head and looked at Jeremy. ‘It’s all free, doesn’t cost a penny, doesn’t need a university degree or proof of any kind, because it doesn’t need paying for.’
Jeremy noted the expression on Peter’s face and bit back a quip that had hovered naughtily on his lips. ‘I know,’ he said instead.
‘I think I’m in love.’
‘With Marie, I take it?’
Peter shook his head. ‘Well – yes and no. The way they live, so warm – and not just because of the fire. Mr Martindale was very funny, as was his wife. They insult one another affectionately. And Marie – well – she was just Marie. It was like … it was like going home. I was at home. I fell head over heels for a way of life, wanted to stay there. They have probably scrimped all their lives to buy Claughton Cottage. But I wasn’t an outsider. They open their hearts and let you in, wherever they live.’
Jeremy swallowed a lump of emotion for which he could not account. Peter, outwardly the quieter and more sensitive, was airing notions about which Jeremy had always tried not to think. ‘We’ll be out of there soon.’
Peter nodded slowly. ‘What’s going to become of Father?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ came the swift reply.
‘He’s a human being, Jer.’
‘Is he? Oh, that escaped my notice. Mother’s, too – and Nanny Foster’s. You’ve got to stop worrying about things you can’t change.’
‘I know. It still sickens me, though.’
Peter drove homeward at a snail’s pace, his eyes straying occasionally to light upon terraced houses that contained families, people who lived together, who were interdependent and affectionate. They weren’t all like the Martindales, of that he was certain, but he felt drawn to the smaller life, the larger community, the class whose members had been designated a lower rung on the ladder. ‘We haven’t got a real life,’ he said eventually.
‘I know.’
‘Mother’s damaged – do we really want to live with her and Nanny Foster?’
‘She will need our support for a while.’
‘Yes, I suppose she will.’ Peter changed gears. ‘The family I visited today is the one Father hates – the one he has been raging on about since they bought Claughton Cottage. Yet they made me welcome in spite of Father’s nastiness.’ He pulled in to the kerb. ‘I don’t want to sound dramatic, Jer, but we have to promise ourselves something.’
‘OK. But get on with it, because I am starving.’
‘We must lead a good life, you and I. We have to, because we have learnt about the alternative. Oh, I don’t mean that we’ve got to end up as saints, but we must make a fresh start, marry decent girls and look after them properly.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘I won’t. I don’t want to end up like Dad and Grandfather, so my drinking will be minimal. Alcoholism runs in families, you know. It’s in the blood.’
Jeremy turned his head and stared through the window, because he could not bear to look at his brother. A single tear had made its way down Peter’s face and Jeremy’s throat was suddenly occupied by a sob whose birth he forbade. After all, he was the stronger twin, wasn’t he?
‘We have to do better than our father did, Jer. We have to go out there and find a life that works.’ He dashed the wetness from his cheek, hoped that his twin had not noticed it. Why was he weeping, anyway? Was he mourning the loss of the grange, of a way of life he hated? No, change was necessary. This was self-pity, no more and no less, and he despised himself for it. ‘Jer?’
‘What?’
‘Shall we go to the Chandlers Arms for a pie and a pint?’
‘I thought you were signing the pledge,’ managed Jeremy.
‘No. I’m signing nothing until my solicitor has read it.’
Back to normal, Peter drove his brother to the pub and pushed today to the back of his mind. But today was a corner-stone and he would build on it. Oh, and he would marry Marie Martindale – that was the other certainty.
Richard Chandler slammed the receiver into its cradle. God, the prices of these nursing homes. A man would need to be a millionaire to keep an ageing parent in one of those places. And there was something going on around him – he was aware of activity, quiet, surreptitious goings-on. He should stop drinking and concentrate, but drink was all he had. Dave Armstrong had left and Father was currently in the hands of two village boys; Polly would have managed him, but the fragrant one had dug her heels in. Had he brought in Polly, Jean would have left home. As it stood, she and the boys remained at the grange; perhaps the danger had passed. Since the day of their original announcement, neither boy had mentioned the idea of moving out.
He downed another whisky and closed his eyes. There was movement in the house; several times, he had caught Jean wandering a
bout and staring at furniture. Well, if she thought she was going to buy anything new, she could think again, because he wasn’t made of money. What to do about Father? If only a visit by the vet had been a possibility, he would have had Henry put out of everybody’s misery.
‘Bugger,’ he cursed quietly. What was she up to? There was someone skulking in the hall. He rose to unsteady feet, staggered to the door and threw it open. The fragrant one was with Sally Foster, heads together, a notebook in the housekeeper’s hands. ‘What are you two doing?’ he shouted, the words emerging crippled.
Jean sighed and pulled herself to full height. He was a vision of ugliness, waistcoat unbuttoned and stained, face darkened by two days’ growth of beard, nose shining like a lighthouse beacon. She found it impossible to remember the man she had married, vigorous, full of mischief, sometimes tender. What had happened? she wondered briefly. He was his own father all over again, had inherited the worst of the Chandler traits and none of the old man’s humour.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Sally placed her hand on Jean’s arm, but she was too late, because Jean had already begun to speak. ‘I am moving on,’ Jean said.
He blinked. ‘Moving on? To what?’
‘To sanity,’ she replied, amazed by her sudden lack of fear. What was he, after all? A drunk, no more and no less, a man whose limbs no longer belonged to him, whose brain was dying, whose liver was probably reduced to nothing. ‘I shall leave you to Polly Fishwick – let her become mistress here.’
He stumbled backwards, tried to regain a degree of poise when he managed to prop himself up against a wall. ‘But … but I thought you’d changed your mind – I said that she could stay.’ He waved a hand towards Sally Foster. ‘Why are you going?’
‘To make a home with my sons. To be near my daughter. To be as far away from you as I can contrive.’
‘What?’ He stumbled towards the two women. ‘What? You can’t manage on your own. You spend money as if there’s no end to it—’
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