Chandlers Green

by Ruth Hamilton

  Marie sat on the window sill, her laughter contained deliberately. ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘She went in for doffing in Swan Mills and he went in for the priesthood. They sacked him after twelve months and he came home and married Edna. They had five children and they brought them all up in two rooms over a newspaper shop.’

  Marie eyed her mother. ‘Are you telling lies again?’

  ‘Am I heck as like. Eeh, I can see him now, scraping his clog irons on the flags till blue sparks came off them. And Edna nearly fading away when he went into the seminary. It was awful. There was talk of her entering a convent till she heard they never had ice cream.’

  Marie could no longer contain her laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ objected Leena. ‘She was a dead weight when she was unconscious.’

  Marie dried her eyes. ‘Well, I’m not starting fainting and Peter isn’t going to wear clogs. I’ve only known him for three months and you know we sing from different hymn books. Peter’s not a Catholic, so that’s that.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘It has to be. And I can’t see him turning.’

  Leena watched her husband as he carried in a tea chest full of dishes. ‘It wouldn’t have stopped me and your dad,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know, Mam. Come on, let’s have these curtains up, or it’ll be Christmas and nothing ready. Do you know where the hooks are?’ Hooks. Aggie had gone on about hooks in the Bodega that day, the day she had made her mind up to escape from a life filled with fish and chips. Aggie was now installed at the grange and nothing further had been said about Meredith and her proposed business. Funny how things turned out – a reply to an advert had brought Marie the last thing she had expected: a husband. She swallowed audibly.

  ‘Marie?’

  ‘What?’ She had told herself; she must face up to it now, because she had finally announced the news internally.

  ‘Have you got one of your sore throats?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Marie nodded and began to root about in a box, settled her mind on discovering curtain hooks. He wasn’t a Catholic. ‘There are just buttons in this one, Mam.’ He would not turn – he came from a family with a documented past. ‘Pass me that blue tin,’ she asked. His family had a history of Puritanism, had fought King and Cavalier, had helped to decapitate the Earl of Derby. ‘They’re not in this one, either. Look in the hall, Mam.’

  Alone, she pondered her fate. Peter loved her – he had said so often enough. Was love all that was needed? Would love carry her and him through the maelstrom that was religious and social divide? Josie was struck by Jeremy, but it wasn’t love, not as far as Marie could work out. Josie was deep and quite selfish and was not easily opened to emotion. Josie was not ready for marriage; she would jump out of her job and leave home if and when she was ready, but love? Not yet …

  Marie discovered an Oxo tin, tore off its lid and found what she needed. ‘They’re here, Mam,’ she shouted. Upstairs, voices were raised, Elsie and Bert arguing with Dad about the placement of beds and wardrobes. Nothing momentous was happening, nothing had changed. Except that Marie Martindale was definitely in love. Yes, taken all round, it was best to stick to curtains for now.

  Peter and Jeremy Chandler were at a loss. ‘We can’t tell Mother,’ said Jeremy for what seemed like the tenth time. ‘She has had enough and some to spare. But we can’t bring Meredith with us, either. I suppose we could try to lock her in Grandpa’s old room, but—’

  ‘But that would make us as bad as our father. Anyway, she’s asleep.’ Peter sank into a chair. They were on the landing outside their sister’s room and were making no progress. ‘Did you find all the bottles?’

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘All is an unknown quantity, isn’t it? I found some, but how would I know if there were more? I removed all that were findable, plus seven empties. Still sherry. Glad she hasn’t moved on to gin.’

  ‘What are we supposed to do? Mother is downstairs with the picnic, Aggie has worked for days to get it ready, and—’

  ‘Fetch Aggie,’ Jeremy suggested. ‘Go on, Peter. I’ll stay with Meredith – we need help. We cannot cope on our own and that’s a fact. Aggie is a coper, that’s plain enough. And Meredith definitely, absolutely, cannot come with us to Claughton Cottage.’

  ‘But Aggie is coming – and so she should,’ Peter protested. ‘Why should she miss a bit of fun? She’s been Marie’s friend for ever – she is an important part of the welcoming committee. And she may tell Mother.’

  ‘She won’t,’ Jeremy declared, certainty in his words. ‘Aggie is a good egg and can be trusted totally. Also, we have no choice, because she is our only hope.’

  When Peter returned with the new housekeeper, she was bundled without ceremony or preamble into Meredith’s room. Standing between the boys, she stared at the vision before her. Clothes were scattered to all four corners and a sickly smell hung in the air. ‘Hell’s bells,’ she whispered when her gaze reached the figure on the bed. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty,’ Peter answered, ‘and we leave in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Is she drunk?’

  ‘This is the worst we have seen,’ said Jeremy. ‘She didn’t have breakfast, so the sherry has hit her hard. She’s a bloody mess.’

  Aggie bit down on her lower lip. She had entertained her suspicions about Meredith, whose moods changed as often as the wind in these parts, but suspicion was one thing, while certainty was frightening. ‘She’s only twenty-three,’ she said for no reason whatsoever. ‘I know, I know, they’re born, not cultivated. I had an uncle the same and he started young. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ Peter’s voice was low. ‘If Mother sees her like this, havoc will follow. We have had generations of it, and—’ He stopped when a hand was suddenly placed on his shoulder. Everyone except the unconscious Meredith turned to see Anna Chandler. ‘Aunt Anna!’ Peter stuttered. ‘Erm … we seem to have a … situation.’

  ‘Go,’ ordered the old lady. ‘I am not as blind as Jean prefers to be, so I do know what has been going on. The three of you must take Jean to the cottage. Tell her that Meredith has a blinding headache and has gone back to sleep. I shall look after her.’

  ‘But Mother may come up to see her,’ said Jeremy.

  Aggie shot into action, scooping up clothes and toiletries and stuffing them under the bed. She picked up a perfume spray and filled the air with droplets of Chanel. ‘If Mrs Chandler does come to see Meredith, she will find her asleep. Well, unconscious. And she will have a headache when she comes round, I can promise that, so you are telling no lies.’ Breathless, Aggie sank onto the dressing stool. This was terrible. Meredith was such a good and clever girl, yet here she lay as drunk as a lord. ‘We have to put a stop to this,’ she muttered, ‘nip it in the bud.’

  Jeremy sneezed when the perfume tickled his nose. ‘Stinks like an Amsterdam whorehouse,’ he moaned.

  Anna smiled grimly. ‘And how would you know?’ She addressed her next remarks to Aggie. ‘You know what has happened in this house, don’t you? That my nephew caused the death of your predecessor and that he will be home soon? Have you been told the absolute truth?’

  Aggie’s eyes slid across to Jeremy. He had trusted her; he had told her the facts about which Josie and Marie had felt unable to speak. ‘Yes, I know,’ she replied eventually.

  ‘That’s important,’ declared Anna. ‘No-one should be asked to work here without being fully conversant with recent events. This family is cursed.’ The ill-dressed old lady raised her chin in an attitude of defiance. ‘But Meredith is female and therein lies hope. Leave her with me and look after your mother.’ It was time someone looked after Jean. ‘Pol is trustworthy, too – she’s on her way to town, so she won’t need to witness this, either, but she will need to be told soon about Meredith’s little problem. I am sure she suspects already. Get along now – off with you.’

  When they had gone, Anna Chand
ler sat for a while in the room that contained the latest victim of the family curse. She stuck a hand-rolled cigarette between her lips, struck a match and inhaled deeply. The stage was set for Richard’s return. Henry was installed downstairs, as was Polly Fishwick. They had their own rooms and a brand-new bathroom between them. At Claughton Cottage, Alfred and Leena Martindale were setting up home this very day, while the new housekeeper was very much on the side of the righteous.

  But in the wings lay Meredith, lines unprepared, her part not yet learnt. The girl needed prompting so that she would not stumble, needed straightening out before opening night. God. This was beyond mending, yet it must not be so, because Jean would be needing a supporting cast in fighting fettle. What could be done? The cure came from within a person, not from pressure applied by others. Henry had endured enforced withdrawal, but the hell he had managed to survive was hardly humane. Was it too late for Meredith?

  Anna stubbed out her cigarette, then went to run a bath. Whether or not she co-operated, Meredith Chandler would be sobered very shortly. Outside the bathroom, Anna heard the sound of the others leaving. She thanked all guardian angels for protecting Jean thus far. Then she went to heave her great-niece from her bed. It was time for tough action.

  No-one had visited him. That damned doctor had been a couple of times in the early days, but, no longer in charge of Richard Chandler, even he had stayed away in recent weeks. Soon it would be Christmas, and the powers had decreed that he would be fit to go home in time for the celebrations.

  Celebrations? He tossed a magazine to the floor and stared unseeing through the window of room 3. Sometimes, he felt as if he had been here for ever. They had tried to get him to join in something called group therapy and he was meant to be a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, but he still resisted. No-one was going to tell him how to live, no-one would separate him from his whisky and soda …

  According to Dr Beddows, Father was back in the driving seat. Well, that would not last five minutes, because the old man was as mad as a caged monkey. He had been caged, too, because he could not hold his drink. Richard swallowed. Yes, Sally Foster was dead, because on that single occasion the drink had got the better of Richard, too, but that would not happen again. Moderation was required. He would drink less, was absolutely sure that he could manage to ration himself. Oh, he would have given a fiver for a double—

  The door opened, but it was several seconds before Richard raised his head. They flitted in and out all the time, nurses, bloody nuns, auxiliaries bearing cups of tea, meals, newspapers. The Catholic priest had been an intermittent visitor until Richard had planted several fleas in his over-sized ears.

  When the latest intruder neither spoke nor moved, he was forced to look round. He froze momentarily, then managed one word. ‘Pol?’

  She took a deep breath before venturing right into the room. He looked dreadful, putty-coloured skin threaded with veins, his nose purpled by split capillaries. Why had she come? Oh, she knew why she had come. It had taken courage to overcome her essential fear of this fellow and she had no intention of backing out now. ‘Hello,’ she said finally. So this had been his home, this cell with its plain walls, cold green flooring, hospital bed with a crucified Christ hanging over it. He was dressed in a kind of uniform – grey shirt, grey trousers, carpet slippers.

  ‘You’ve altered,’ was his reciprocal offering. She wore a blue coat, good shoes, carried a sensible bag. And her face was not painted. She looked … she gave the impression that she was almost decent, though he knew differently. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked. ‘It took you long enough.’

  Polly chose her words with care. ‘I’ve come to warn you,’ she told him. ‘Nobody knows I’m here, but I shall tell your missus when I get back. They’re all out. They’re all at Claughton Cottage.’

  His pulse picked up speed. ‘What?’ he roared.

  ‘Watch your blood pressure,’ advised the visitor calmly, ‘else you’ll be taking a stroke and I’ve enough on with your dad – I shan’t be able to cope with two invalids, so bear that in mind before you have any bad turns.’

  Richard’s jaw swung loose and he closed his mouth abruptly, biting his tongue in the process. ‘What?’ he asked again.

  She sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair. ‘I live at the grange now. Fred Baxendale’s given up as land manager, so I do the rents and see what’s what on the farms.’ She was proud of that. She had a big notebook into which she copied all the tenants’ complaints and they trusted her, even after just a couple of weeks. ‘I’m the steward,’ she said, savouring each syllable before allowing it to escape. ‘And I live in, because I look after your dad.’

  He gasped. ‘But you refused when I asked you.’

  Polly stared straight into his eyes. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? Only it was this way, you see. The night you killed Sally Foster …’ She paused for effect. ‘The night you murdered your housekeeper, your dad ran to me. Right through the woods, he came, wearing nothing but a nightshirt and a load of goose pimples. He was frightened halfway to death, because you locked him up and made everybody stay away from him. And I found out for myself that there’s nothing wrong with him.’

  ‘He’s a drunk,’ sputtered Richard.

  Pol squashed a grin. ‘Is he? Takes one to know one, eh? What’s this place, then? Is it a holiday hotel or is it a drying-out clinic?’ She enjoyed the short silence that followed.

  ‘He was mad.’ Richard made no reply to the other accusation she had thrown at him. He hadn’t killed anybody, but what was the point of trying to explain to someone as stupid as Polly Fishwick?

  She nodded. ‘Aye, he was mad, but not in the way you wanted people to think. He was angry-mad, furious, helpless. He fought his jailers like buggery – anybody would. But now he has me and Anna to see to him—’

  ‘Anna?’ His eyes were beginning to bulge from their sockets.

  ‘Oh, yes, forgot to tell you – she moved back in and all. Then, what with your Peter courting that Marie Martindale, they’ve all gone down there with a picnic, because the family’s moving in today. Done that house up something lovely, they have, new roof, window frames and doors all painted – there’s only the garden wants doing.’ She watched the words as they cut deeper and deeper into him, knew that she was doing more damage here than might have been inflicted even with the heaviest implement. ‘Anyway, I was passing on the bus, so I thought I’d get off and pay you a visit. I’m off to town to get some new pans for Aggie.’

  Richard was at a complete loss and it showed in his tone. ‘Aggie?’

  She shook her head as if reminding herself of her own stupidity. ‘See? I keep forgetting, don’t I? You don’t know any of it and I should remember that. Agnes Turner – your new house-keeper. She’s just a kid, but she’s learning to cook and she takes no nonsense.’ Polly paused again for further effect. ‘I shall make sure I get a good frying pan,’ she announced clearly, ‘because it can come in handy, can a good frying pan.’ She patted her neat hair. ‘She’s a friend of that Marie’s – I think they were at school together. We’re one big happy family now, Mrs Chandler, your dad, Anna, Aggie, your kids and me. Yes, we shall have a lovely Christmas.’

  He struggled to his feet. ‘Over my dead body,’ he yelled.

  Polly stood up. ‘That can be arranged,’ she replied, her voice steady. ‘One false move from you and we’ll put you out with the bins, because we’ve all had enough. Eeh, I bet you never thought you’d see the day when your wife and your bit of stuff moved in together, eh? We get on great, too. And Anna’s a scream when you get to know her. As for your dad – he may be old, but he’s very good with money.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re getting Woodside done up for me in the spring – that’s so I’ll have somewhere to go when I need a break. Oh yes, nothing’s too good for me.’ She stroked the silk scarf at her throat.

  She needed a break now, he decided, a nice, clean break right through her neck. God, she was
staring straight at him, was acting like an equal. How dared she, how dared any of them? ‘You’d be nothing without me,’ he snarled.

  ‘I was nothing because of you,’ came the swift response.

  ‘I looked after you, didn’t I?’

  ‘You kept me a prisoner just like your dad. Oh, there was no lock on the door, but I was in jail, all right. You had me exactly where you wanted me – then your dad and your wife got me out. I belong to me now, just to me.’

  He stood as still as a rock, eyes riveted to her, mind fixed on a future that sounded far from promising. ‘So my daughter came back home and the boys never left?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Jean was buying a house,’ he reminded himself aloud.

  ‘She was. But she was buying a house with Sally Foster and now there is no Sally Foster. So, all your family will be there when you come home. Isn’t that nice? They’ll be looking forward to it, I’m sure.’ She failed to conceal the sarcasm in her last statement.

  ‘And is Meredith still bent on starting a business?’

  Pol hesitated before replying. Unless she was very much mistaken, Meredith Chandler was bending in a different direction, one that was very familiar to the man in this room. ‘I don’t know,’ came the honest answer, ‘but your aunt’s still working on the history of Chandlers Green. Oh, and Sally Foster left a tidy sum, you know. She hardly spent a penny piece for years, so that’s been passed on to your wife. Yes, we’re quite cosy.’

  We? he snarled inwardly. ‘Why have you come?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you – to warn you that things have changed while you’ve been shut in here. I thought it was only fair to let you know.’

  ‘Well, you can bugger off now.’ He turned away from her and waited until the door swung shut in her wake. When he was alone, he threw himself onto his bed and ignored the complaints it made. The last bloody straw? God, there were enough last straws to build a haystack. The fragrant one was mixing openly with her own husband’s sworn enemy, Peter was courting the man’s daughter, a friend of the Martindales was installed as house-keeper, Father was back in the land of the living, Anna had quit the gatehouse and was installed at the grange and, to top it all, Polly Fishwick had been employed as steward.