Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘No.’

  After Josie had left for her lecture on food hygiene, Marie Martindale found herself wishing with all her heart that Peter and Jeremy Chandler had kept their secret to themselves. Boys came and went, but Aggie Turner was precious.

  Aggie stared into the shop window, but she did not see shoes, boots and sandals. No, all she could see was a picture of Marie and Josie; all she could feel was rejection, isolation and disappointment. Although she joked repeatedly about her situation, Agnes Turner was genuinely fed up with her way of life. She had abilities that went far beyond the management of marrowfat peas and battered cod; she was a home-maker, had been born to cook, to organize, to chivvy people along in their daily lives.

  What had that been about? Why were those two suddenly a pair, with her acting as the dummy hand? ‘I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself,’ she whispered. But that wasn’t going to be easy. Apart from time spent in the company of her friends, Aggie enjoyed a limited social life. Like many plump girls, she was treated as a ‘good egg’, a female Humpty Dumpty, a strong one who would not break, who would pick herself up and remain intact no matter how many times she was toppled.

  Perhaps rounded people were not supposed to have feelings, she told herself for the umpteenth time as she walked towards her bus. She was of a lesser species, a sub-group with limited aspirations, little appeal and a sense of humour that would carry her through the worst circumstances. Enough was enough. She would be leaving home, but she would not be taking up residence at 34 Emblem Street.

  Was she making too much fuss about one small event? Should she accept life for what it was, just a package of fish and chips, sometimes with peas? Josie Maguire and Marie Martindale were cleverer than she was. They had done better at school, had been assigned good looks and manners that pleased the opposite sex. Aggie had been the tagger-on, the one who made everyone laugh, a clown in the big top. It was time to do something for herself; it was time to move on.

  Polly was nervous. Her hands were sweaty and she could not get her hair to lie properly – no matter what she did, it stuck up all over the place, allotting her the appearance of a character from a children’s comic, an over-coloured creature who was emerging from shock. ‘Bugger it,’ she said to the image in the mirror. ‘She can take me or leave me.’

  Polly could not manage to imagine herself acting as a steward. She was willing to look after old Henry – he was a sweetheart – but the thought of living up there at the grange with the wife of her ex-lover was awesome. Perhaps she would get her house back after the repairs had been completed, but she suspected that Jean Chandler wanted to keep an eye on her. No. ‘Jean Chandler is on your side,’ she informed her image. Yet her heart was heavy as she closed the front door. Once Richard Chandler came home from the drying-out clinic, would any of them be safe? She knew his temper, had used bottles of witch hazel on the fruits of his rough treatment – and Sally Foster had paid the ultimate price, or so it seemed. ‘I should have been nicer to her,’ she informed herself as she took the short cut via the woods. ‘She couldn’t help what she looked like any more than I can.’

  She climbed the stile, dropped onto the path and glanced to her left. The gatehouse stood empty; another person had moved into the grange and Polly found herself drawn to the company of Aunt Anna. Anna Chandler took people at face value, didn’t harp on about the past, was even amused by the famous frying-pan incident. ‘I’ll be all right,’ became Polly’s mantra as she forced herself to walk tall. ‘I am as good as anybody.’

  The door was opened by Meredith. Behind the daughter of the house, a couple of village girls were mopping the amazing mosaic floor. Polly swallowed. ‘I’ve come to see your mam – I mean your mother.’

  ‘Yes. Do come in.’ Meredith held the door wide. ‘And don’t look so miserable.’ She laughed. ‘Most people who see Mother come out alive and she had a good breakfast.’

  Polly stepped inside. Half of her – the half she thought of as sensible – wanted to run. But she would not run, because there was nowhere to go and Henry needed her. She didn’t fancy collecting rents, but perhaps she could get out of that. And she certainly didn’t want Sally Foster’s job, because cooking was an art into which she had seldom delved. She could do egg and chips and—

  ‘Come in.’ Jean Chandler was standing in the door of what Pol would call the best room. She seemed friendly enough, yet Pol was tremulous. The last time she had been in the company of Jean Chandler had been the day after Richard’s attack. She swallowed nervously. ‘I hope your neck’s better and I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. Do sit down.’

  Polly sat. ‘You look different, Mrs Chandler.’ She shouldn’t have said that – she was going to be an employee, no more and no less.

  Jean patted her hair. She had spent eight pounds on a good cut and she was pleased with the results. ‘It was time for change.’ The words were weighted. ‘A lot of changes are going to take place, Mrs Fishwick.’

  ‘Pol. Or Polly – I don’t mind which.’

  Jean glanced downward. ‘Sally Foster was more than a house-keeper – much more.’ She raised her head. ‘She looked after me, Polly. Life in this house has not been happy.’

  Polly wriggled like a schoolgirl in the headmaster’s office. What would her punishment be? No matter what a woman thought about her man, she still objected when he went elsewhere – that was only natural. But Jean’s expression was neutral. Polly spoke up. ‘I’m sorry about a lot of things, Mrs Chandler.’

  ‘Well, don’t be. We have to move forward now, Polly. You know he kept his own father locked upstairs and that we were all forced to stay away from him? Don’t you realize how guilty I feel? We should have got help, but Henry ranted and raved like a madman – he was playing his part.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That will not be repeated.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And I would like you to care for Pa. When your house has been modernized, you may use it whenever you wish and you need pay no rent. Looking after an old man can be trying, so you will require a retreat – and the village girls will step in when you go home for a day or two. Also, my father-in-law is keen to better your situation. Our land manager is about to retire and he will train you to do his job on a part-time basis. You will collect rents, have estate buildings inspected – Woodside Cottage is a case in point – and report on necessary repairs.’

  Polly sighed heavily. ‘I’m not clever.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  But Polly knew that this woman had abilities and education. ‘I hardly went to school,’ she said, ‘because I was always looking after somebody – usually my grandad. My mother died young, so I had brothers and sisters to see to. My dad was feckless, we never knew where he was, so—’

  ‘So you cared for a family when you were a child. That is education. You can read and write, you can count and you can use your head.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do not suppose anything – know it.’ Yes, she would say it all. She would say it to this woman and to the Martindales this afternoon. ‘It is time for plain speaking,’ she began.

  Polly felt her heart picking up speed. Here it came, the head teacher’s cane, the standing in the corner, the humiliation—

  ‘Did he really ask you to spy on the Martindales?’

  Relieved, Polly nodded mutely.

  ‘The man is going to need some form of restraint, and control will not come from within himself. Later today, I shall be meeting Alfred and Leena Martindale.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘My husband is capable of doing great damage.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And we shall need to be on our guard – all of us. I am tired of the shame, tired of trying to make this house look perfect – this is Richard’s whited sepulchre and I have kept the exterior gleaming. I have been too ashamed to admit my fear. But facing up to what has happened is the first step towards healing. I need your help.’

  ‘You’ll have it.
’

  ‘Shall I?’

  Polly Fishwick looked into a face that had opened up. The hurt showed at last. ‘I promise you that I’ll do my best and I hope my best will be good enough. If it isn’t, you can always say so. And … you know … about me and your husband … I am sorry.’

  ‘Your apology is accepted. You had nowhere to go and he used you. I want you to have a fresh start – so does Pa. Look what you do for him, Polly. He says he can remember things when you are there. That is your gift. Stop thinking so ill of yourself, start knowing your own value. You are wonderful with that old man – he adores you.’

  ‘I’m glad he came to me,’ Polly replied, emotion thickening her words.

  ‘God sent him to you, then God sent you to me. Now, go home and make your arrangements. My children will help you.’

  Alone once again, Jean began to plan the afternoon session. Alfred, Leena and Marie Martindale were expected. Peter was very taken with the daughter of that family, so it was time for Jean to meet the girl. It was also time to get all the ducks in a row. She smiled, remembered Sally saying those very words whenever she had organized something or other. ‘I have all my ducks in a row,’ Sally had said when her mind and house had been set in order.

  It was time for Jean to train her mind on those flying birds; it was time to get her house under firm control.

  Although three people had set out from Emblem Street to meet Jean Chandler, four returned. Leena and Marie, elegant in new suits and shoes, led the way back into the house. Alfred followed, tie loosened to express relief, and bringing up the rear in a plain coat was Agnes Turner. Still rather red-faced, Aggie shuffled into number 34 and plonked herself onto the horsehair chaise under the stairs.

  Marie found herself grinning. ‘You’ve got guts, girl.’ She could not trim the admiration from her words. ‘Whatever gave you the idea?’

  Aggie raised a plump shoulder. ‘I told you there was more to me than batter and chips. When I heard the housekeeper was dead, I went for the job.’ She stretched short legs and clasped her hands behind her neck. ‘I’m a housekeeper.’ She had acted on a whim and had arrived during the Martindales’ visit. ‘Sorry, I should have waited, but I thought I’d strike while the iron was still hot. Mind, I’ll have to learn to cook better – but I got the job.’

  ‘And thank God for it,’ muttered Leena, ‘because I wouldn’t have known what to say. She wanted me for the job – me, what’s recovering from TB of the lungs.’

  ‘I’m your boss,’ Aggie giggled.

  Alf shovelled some coal onto the fire. He saw beyond the job offers and the tea and scones with which they had been served; Alfred Martindale had not come down in the last shower of rain. He could see right through poor Jean Chandler. And what would be the outcome of this charade? he wondered inwardly. Her husband was in an alcohol recovery unit, her father-in-law had been reinstated as lord of the manor, she had made a friend of Polly Fishwick and, to top it all, she wanted Leena to help out in the house.

  ‘Dad?’ Marie’s brow was furrowed. ‘Are you all right?’

  Was he all right? Was he heck as like. Suddenly, the move to Chandlers Green seemed rash. Richard Chandler hated Alf with a passion that was almost tangible. ‘I’m all right,’ he replied determinedly.

  Aggie plucked absently at a cushion. ‘He had something to do with the death of that woman, didn’t he?’ She had no need to identify the subject of her statement. ‘And that’s what you and Josie didn’t want to tell me.’

  Marie made no reply, but the answer lay in her silence.

  ‘So, I shall be living up yon,’ continued the visitor, ‘and you and Josie can have a room each here.’

  Marie bit down on her lower lip. She would miss Aggie and had been worried by the impasse created in the Bodega Coffee Bar. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I just did what I thought was best.’ Anyway, Aggie could look after Mam. ‘It’s a good move for you,’ she said encouragingly. ‘That’ll get you away from chip fat and vinegar.’

  Leena was sitting at the table, her head lowered, hands splayed palms down on the cloth. The house had been awesome, wood panels, paintings, posh clocks, wonderful furniture. ‘Shall we belong?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘Of course we will.’ The certainty in Alf’s statement was borrowed from a strength he was fighting to maintain. He knew Chandler’s temper, his so-called morals, his evil. ‘We shall have a grand life.’

  Leena heard the hollow timbre in her husband’s voice, and fear travelled quickly through her veins. The madman would be out any day. She swallowed the terror. ‘She thinks we’ll manage him between us, Alf.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, as Shakespeare might have said, the lass is girding her loins – and we are the chain mail, love. The more, the safer – that’s how she sees it. I was supposed to be taking you into peace, not another bloody war.’

  Aggie nodded. ‘There’ll be enough of us. Between us, we can keep her safe. What can one man do against so many?’

  Alf leaned against the mantel. ‘God knows,’ he whispered. No-one heard him and he prayed alone.

  NINE

  December roared in, winds heralding the advent of true winter, the last leaves driven away by the sheer force of weather, snow held off by constant shifting of air – it was plain that the wind could not make up its mind, because it skittered about like a premature spring lamb, no focus, no sense of direction.

  Chandlers Green, exposed to the elements, open fields all around, was chilled further by the force of the gales. Trees in the woods bent as if they might break, washing was ripped from lines, children at play grew noisier as they tried to communicate above the loudness of nature.

  Into this cacophony ventured Alfred and Leena Martindale, all their worldly goods packed into two vans. Claughton Cottage, with its new roof and cement rendering, was opening its arms to its latest inhabitants. With the new arrivals was their daughter, Marie, who had come to help with the move. Neighbours Elsie and Bert Ramsden completed the party and all were busy turning the house into a home.

  Uneasy about her elders’ imminent involvement with the Chandler family, Marie steeled herself and got on with the practicalities, her mind fixed on dishes and the placement of furniture. Peter’s father would be home soon and Marie feared for everyone’s safety.

  It was very posh, she decided as she gazed around at brand-new seating, decent carpets, a gleaming cooker, fresh paint and wallpaper. Yes, Mam and Dad had come up in the world, while she had chosen to remain behind in the old house amid much of the furniture that had accompanied Alf and Leena through their married life. Claughton Cottage was lovely, she admitted, but it was not for her.

  Leena joined her daughter and both stared through the French windows, their eyes riveted to a jungle that would remain untouched until next spring. ‘Like a bombsite,’ commented Leena.

  Marie agreed. ‘Armageddon. You’ll need a tractor.’

  ‘It’s a farming community.’ A nervous hand came up and grasped Marie’s wrist. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’

  ‘Course you will, Mam. And I’ll be here a lot – there’s no way I shall let a week pass without visiting you. Then, when we get the phones in, we can talk, can’t we? Don’t worry. We don’t want you ill again.’

  Leena’s grip tightened. ‘And there’s the other business – the grange – Mrs Chandler—’

  ‘And Mr Chandler when he gets home,’ added Marie. ‘If you don’t want to be there, don’t go. We can always explain to Peter.’ Although reluctant to give voice to the concept, Marie was almost sure that she had fallen in love. The visit to Chandlers Grange had sobered her somewhat, as she had not realized the full extent of the family’s estate, but Peter remained constant and he was all that mattered. He loved the town; eventually, he would probably move there.

  Anyway, Marie had been raised to know that she was as good as anyone, though she realized that her own mother was not over-endowed with self-confidence. Leena protested frequently, was heard to aver that she co
uld hold up her head anywhere, yet Marie knew that her mother was nervous about mixing with a family whose origins were traceable through the lengthy annals of time. Anna and annals, mused Marie. Anna Chandler was writing the history of this village and had begun in the fifteenth century – and a sobering concept that was, too—

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Leena was well aware of the subject of her daughter’s preoccupation, yet she needed to hear it. Marie was in love and was probably out of her depth.

  ‘Just realizing what a big job that garden is,’ Marie lied.

  Leena was not fooled for a moment. She recalled her own young days, remembered waiting for Alf, knew that she had hung on his every word and that the hours spent away from him had dragged endlessly. ‘Marie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You love him, don’t you?’

  Marie retrieved her hand. ‘Mam, I don’t know, not properly, anyway. If I do love him, then the first person I’ll tell will be myself, but you will come in third, I promise you. I suppose he should be second.’

  ‘Do you think about him first thing in the morning and last thing at night and most of the time in between?’

  ‘Mother!’

  Leena laughed – she knew she was in trouble when her daughter used the word ‘Mother’. ‘Well, I’m just asking about your symptoms, that’s all. Some girls get spots and go off their food. Edna Chadwick in our class at school kept fainting. Mother Emmanuel had to take one of the nursery cots into her office for Edna and we used to carry her there at least three times a week. She hung off the end of the cot at the feet end, mind, but she spent a lot of time in Mother’s office.’

  ‘She must have been small to fit in a cot at all,’ said Marie.

  Leena shook her head. ‘No, she was about the right size for her age.’

  ‘Which was?’ Marie tapped her fingernails against the window she was meant to be dressing in green velvet, proper curtains with weights in the hems.

  ‘She was eight,’ replied Leena, ‘and he was ten. I never liked him myself, funny-looking lad with red hair and buck teeth, Ernest Hourigan was his name, but Edna used to come over all funny every time she saw him. Each playtime was like dicing with death, Edna plastered against the railings to the lads’ playground, him showing off, sparking his clogs and doing handstands till she fainted.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘It was a hard life.’