‘Conservation,’ she answered automatically. ‘It’s an anagram of conversation.’
He filled in the word, looked over Anna’s shoulder and through the window. ‘Good to see those boys happy,’ he remarked, ‘and as for that young madam, well, I like her. What is she up to now? A picnic in the snow? I hope they’re wearing woolly vests.’
‘I find myself at odds with George the First.’
‘What do you expect?’ Henry laughed. ‘He was a bloody Kraut.’ He ambled back into his own quarters, was replaced by Polly.
‘She’s gone looking for him,’ said the new arrival. There was no need for her to identify the ‘she’ or the ‘him’. ‘She can’t settle. Peter’s taken her. Sometimes, you know, people meet trouble halfway and—’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘Is that Aggie and your Jeremy?’ She pointed towards the figures in the distance.
‘It is indeed, Polly.’
‘In December? With a picnic basket?’
‘They march to their own drummer,’ mused Anna.
‘They march to their own bloody deaths in this weather.’ Polly left; it was time to cajole the old man into his purpose-built ground-floor bathroom.
Anna returned to the commencement of the Hanoverian dynasty and Katherine Chandler, whose husband had died in a riding accident shortly after the birth of her one and only son. Katherine had grabbed the reins, had kept the accounts in good order and was easy to transcribe. So the Hanoverians had made Anna’s life slightly easier after all, and, for that, she was inordinately grateful.
Jean Chandler recognized that the path through depression was not an easy one and that there were no maps to help her on her way. The pills took the edge off life, but she needed to climb back into reality, wanted to face her demons. Like a novel, life was something to be written by one person, and it was time for her to make her own marks. ‘Next chapter,’ she muttered as she stared through the windscreen.
‘Denouement,’ agreed her son. Like his mother, he needed to see in order to believe. ‘I just cannot imagine him living here.’
‘You plan to live somewhere very similar.’
‘Yes, but I shall come home for a bath,’ came the reply. ‘I believe he does have a bathroom, though – Aggie’s mother says there is one tacked on at the back of the house.’
Jean placed a hand on the arm of her beloved son. He was so precious and now, at last, so sure of himself. One student’s application had been withdrawn and Peter had been awarded the place in the veterinary department at Manchester; at the beginning of October next, Peter would be an undergraduate. ‘He wanted you both to go to university,’ she said, ‘but he will not be with us when you go. At least, I hope he won’t.’
‘I have no need to become the feather in his cap,’ said Peter. He fixed his gaze on the tawdry front door, bright blue and with the number hand-painted in black. ‘There’s that woman again.’ Two pairs of eyes marked the progress of Freda Pilkington as she walked, basket on arm, towards the shops. ‘She isn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes, is she?’
Jean laughed. ‘No, but neither was poor Polly. She will be dependent on him – that is the only qualification she needs. Your father wrote his own set of commandments, Peter, and “Thou shalt obey thy lord and master at all times” is the first. Do you hate your father? Does Jeremy?’
Peter considered the question before answering. ‘Hatred is, perhaps, too strong a word. We certainly feared him. Jeremy was stronger than I was, and Meredith was the strongest of all.’ But even Meredith was paying the price. Sometimes, Peter looked at her and saw the pain when she refused a glass of wine. He crossed his fingers – Meredith had to be all right.
‘I feared him,’ said Jean now. ‘Sally did not and she was the one who paid the highest price. My conscience has pricked, but we shall have him arrested after Christmas. It has to be done. I just hope it will not be detrimental to anyone’s progress. Jeremy will be going into the business, you will be married soon … oh, God. What is the right thing?’
‘The eternal question, Mother. The answer is that there is no answer. But he should pay for what he has done – and for what he continues to do. Marie’s mother is lucky to be alive, because the TB was bad in both lungs. Now she lives at our house for much of the time – and why? Because of him. If prison is the only way, it must be the solution.’
Jean sighed. ‘Yes – prison, or one of us becomes a murderer. Not a great deal of choice, what?’
‘Very true. As I just said, the answer is no answer.’
The blue door moved inward and Jean crouched down in her seat as her husband stepped out of his house. Unsteady on his feet, he waited to cross the road.
‘Going to that pub, I imagine,’ said Peter.
‘And she will have gone for their lunch,’ answered Jean. ‘I expect even your father will be eating in on Christmas Day – she will probably provide for him. Look at him, Peter. He can scarcely walk. According to Dr Beddows, Richard’s nerve endings are no longer as sensitive as they should be. He is destroying himself.’
Peter agreed. ‘Yes, but he must not be allowed to take others with him, Mother. So. What now? Shall we go home?’
Jean pulled a piece of paper from a pocket. ‘Belt and braces, Peter,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how much this is going to cost, but I should feel a great deal safer if he were watched. Damned nuisance, as we need every penny for the business, but this has to be done. I cannot have Leena Martindale becoming ill again. She is terrified, you know. And he hates that family with an extraordinary passion.’
‘Because Marie’s father saved his life. We know all about it now. I agree. He cannot be allowed to do any further damage. So, where do we go?’
‘Great Moor Street,’ she replied. ‘Let’s see what can be done to clip his wings.’
Jeremy was glad to be rid of his burden. After depositing it on the step outside Woodside Cottage, he straightened, a hand pushed into the small of his back. ‘You are making an old man of me,’ he moaned.
Aggie put a finger to her lips and beckoned. Together, the pair dashed off and hid behind a clump of bushes. They saw the door opening, watched the man as he stooped to pick up his bounty. ‘He’s smiling,’ Aggie whispered.
‘So he should,’ came the reply. ‘He has enough food there to see him through several weeks. I wonder where he came from?’
Aggie shrugged. ‘Well, Jesus was homeless at Christmas, wasn’t he? And the three wise men came bearing gifts on Twelfth Night. We are wise men.’
‘And he is no baby in a manger.’
She glared at him. ‘We are all babies inside. Stop your nitpicking. We have done a good deed. He might be in for a lonely Christmas, but at least he’ll have a full stomach.’
The man carried his basket into the cottage and closed the door. Aggie sighed contentedly. ‘That’s a few weeks less in Purgatory.’
Jeremy shook his head in mock despair. ‘Peter’s taking instruction – any children of theirs will be raised as Catholics. Will you want the same?’
She clouted his arm none too gently. ‘This is a hard world, Jer, but let’s not make it any more difficult. No child of mine is going to be disgraced because he went for a walk instead of to church. I’m not joking.’
‘I can see that.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘So, what do we do?’
‘Register office,’ was the swift response. ‘My Irish ancestors will spin so fast in their graves that the earth’s orbit could change. No. I’m not having my kids kneeling for hours on end at the feet of the Immaculate Conception just because they’ve eaten a sweet during religious education. Nuns and priests are cruel. People turn out paranoid.’
‘You’ve made your decision,’ he said.
‘I have,’ she agreed. ‘I am a marked woman because I was an injured child. I’ve already worn out two missals and a rosary. It’s not for me and it’s not for my kids. Come on, let’s get back. I am freezing.’
‘I can warm you up,’ he offered.
Her cheeks, already coloure
d by the cold, became brighter. ‘You’re a good hot-water bottle,’ she answered, ‘so save it for tonight.’ Temptation had got the better of her, and she felt no guilt at all. The more she thought about things, the clearer it became that she was no Catholic.
The man stood back in the cottage kitchen, far enough from the window to be sure that he was not seen. There they went, the bringers of gifts. He had never spoken to them, but he was grateful for them today. At something of a hiatus in his own life, he was pleased that the young couple had thought of him. But he had plans of his own; today, he was to start in a new job.
He let himself out, locked the back door and pocketed the key. From behind a hedge, he grabbed his moped and wheeled it well out of earshot before mounting it and kicking the mechanism to life. If things went to plan, he would soon be able to pay rent on a place of his own. All the same, he was thankful for that box of goodies and he would not forget the kind donors.
Meredith lingered in the middle of a cold and empty space. Her life was rather cold and empty, but she had no intention of filling it from a sherry bottle. This was her future. Spider webs decorated corners, and an old desk, one injured leg shorter than the other three, leaned for support against a window sill.
This was to be the shop. Next door, in a larger building, the factory would be installed. New fire regulations meant some extra expenditure, but, as Anna had pointed out, the fire station was just doors away. God forbid that the place should go up in smoke … She shivered. Would he? Could he? Fearing one’s own father was a terrible thing …
She went upstairs and tried to imagine how it would look, a series of glass cases, some fastened to walls, others on pedestals, a chamber of horrors in a deliberately dark corner. These wax figures would be moulded, but their exteriors would need to be hand finished. From the ceilings of both storeys, real chandeliers would be suspended, pulleys allowing height adjustment and easy access so that spent candles could be replaced. ‘We shall be employing people,’ she told the emptiness, ‘and that has to be a good thing.’
Downstairs once more, she sat on the window ledge and rested a sketchbook on the wonky desk. She pencilled in a craft area, a huge candle-display counter, bookshelves and an area where paintings would be displayed, many of them produced by her younger brother’s mother-in-law. Would Meredith marry? Did it matter? Did she want to pass along the faulty gene that carried alcoholism?
Oh, she would meet somebody and all that would be forgotten; both her twin brothers had run headlong into love and it would happen to her eventually, of course it would. Aggie and Jeremy were going to remain at the grange, before and after marriage. Peter would be leaving soon; there was no reason on earth why Meredith should continue to live at home. Yet a terrible foreboding sat deep in her core, a feeling that all was not yet resolved. Meredith would stay with Mother until Mother no longer needed her.
Right. She required carpenters, painters, a glazier to replace some broken panes. Floors wanted rubbing down and staining – plain boards would be best, she thought. Walls should be green, but a dullish colour, possibly moss, but paler than moss. Or pale blue – that was a good background, a greyish sort of blue. The chandeliers would be bold and plain, possibly in wrought iron. And, of course, the shop must carry candlesticks in all shapes, sizes and materials from silver plate to glass.
Anna’s book should be centre stage. As always, Meredith found herself smiling when she thought of Anna. What a character she was. When Father had shut Grandfather upstairs, Anna had clattered about the house for days on end, then, when her delinquency had borne no fruit, the old lady had shifted herself to the gatehouse. According to Anna, one got a great deal more sense out of bees, hens and geese than was obtainable from the human animal.
Peter and Mother had gone up Halliwell Road to make sure that Father was still there. ‘Then, she will have him watched,’ she mused aloud. How could anyone watch anyone properly? Who would be there during the hours of darkness? Would a private detective work through Christmas and New Year?
Meredith closed the sketchbook, looked at her watch and decided it was time to go home. Christmas was to be spent at Claughton Cottage, but there were things to be done, gifts to wrap, cards to prepare. This was a time for rejoicing, a time when Anna and her swivelling hat would be very much present at church services, when choirs would sing and children would shout with joy.
However, while she locked the door of her new business, she felt the chill of winter as it whipped through layers of clothing to touch her very bones. Deeper than that, an extra coldness bruised her soul. He was still out there somewhere. And while her own father was at large, Meredith Chandler could never feel settled.
He gazed into his third double Scotch, wondered how the hell he was going to make sure that his son did not become involved with the Martindale girl. Which son? He had always had difficulty separating the two, and both had come out of Preston’s. Another swig helped him to concentrate. Preston’s, the best jeweller’s in the north – what had he bought there all those years ago? Ah, yes, the fragrant one’s engagement and wedding rings. ‘Three diamonds on a twist and a plain gold band,’ he muttered.
‘What?’ asked an old man who was passing Richard’s table. Richard glared at him. ‘There’s no talking to some folk,’ spat the grey-haired drinker as he staggered onwards. ‘Don’t know why they bother coming in if they don’t want to speak to other people …’ His voice faded as he crossed the room.
Richard watched the stumbling figure; he was looking at himself as he would be in a few years. Did he have a few years? Those little white tablets were becoming increasingly important; the pain in chest and arm was now a frequent visitor, a companion, almost.
He could remember things from years ago – like the plain gold band, the very band that had tightened around his own throat – but yesterday, today, last week – these were all melding together like a blob of mixed Plasticine, colours gone, faded and combined to a dirty brown. Forty-five was not old, yet his mind was playing tricks on him. Sometimes he had difficulty remembering where he had parked his own van. But he always managed to get home, that was the main thing. Freda was his home; Freda and her stupid, monotonous chatter, the wittering that had become a lullaby, now represented his one and only anchor, his safe mooring when storms brewed.
He would have to ration the drink for a while, because he had things to do, plans to make. There was stuff in the grange – stuff he had bought and paid for, much of which was valuable. There was madam’s jewellery for a start, and a few paintings small enough to be portable and of a worth sufficient to double his bank balance. He would be taking things that already belonged to him, so it would be no crime.
‘Richard?’
He looked up. She was a decent, warm-hearted woman and he was probably late for a meal again. ‘A drink?’ he asked.
‘Too early for me, love. You finish that and come home. I only nipped across to tell you the dinner’s ready – I’ve done a nice Lancashire hotpot and a treacle tart for afters. Come when you’re ready.’ She left him where he was. Now, that was a woman who knew her place. She catered, cleaned and wittered. He should have chosen better in the first place. When his glass was empty, he made his way back to a coal fire, a decent meal and the company of a good woman.
It was in the Bolton Evening News, a middle-page spread, the whole caboodle, photographs, interviews, a lengthy editorial piece about the proposed New Chandlers.
Richard Chandler, who felt as if all air had left his lungs, knew that the pain would begin any second. He slipped a tiny white tablet under his tongue in an effort to nip the episode in the bud, but the agony won. He leaned back in his chair and waited for the terror to pass. It was too late and he knew it; he could not change his lifestyle and the required operation would not work unless he did. So he lived with it and waited for the living to end. And, by Christ, his family worked hard at bringing that end closer.
When he was relatively composed, he returned to his reading. There was a
large photograph taken in the hall at the grange, Henry in the centre, Jean standing behind him, a caring hand resting on his shoulder. She was flanked by the rest of them – Jeremy and the housekeeper, who was now announced as his fiancée, Peter with the Martindale girl – their engagement, too, was declared here. Polly was in the photograph, as were Anna and Meredith, and they looked so contented, so happy about their own cleverness. ‘I am Chandler,’ he declared to the empty room. How dared they do this? Did they expect him to sit here and accept it with good grace?
The factory-cum-shop would be behind the fire station, on the corner where St Edmund Street met St Helena Road. There was a picture of ruins, remnants of the old factory in the village, then underneath a smaller headline – THE CHANDLERS ARE COMING TO TOWN – were interviews. Anna had much to say about her book and about the family’s founders who could be traced right back to Bolton’s original charter.
The fragrant one had spoken. My son, Jeremy, will be at the helm of the factory and Meredith, Anna and I will run the shop. Peter, Jeremy’s twin, will be studying veterinary science at Manchester University, but he is to be married in March and his wife, now Marie Martindale, will help to run the business.
So, one of them would have a degree. No Chandler thus far had enjoyed higher education and Richard’s single goal had been to see his sons graduate – that would have been testament to him, to his achievements. But no. Only after he had left did one of them announce his intention to attend university.
When questioned about her husband, Jean Chandler’s answer had been simple. He will not be involved. Five words. ‘He will not be involved?’ He tossed the paper to the floor, and there they sat, all in a row, staring up at him from the rug. There was no escape. He picked up the damned thing and read more about the new business, what it would manufacture, what it would sell.
There followed a chatty little piece about Christmas and about Marie Martindale’s family, who would be hosting this year’s event at Claughton Cottage. This will be a pleasant way of marking the engagements of my sons, the fragrant one had told the reporter, and we can take this opportunity to rejoice at the arrival in the village of the Martindale family. She looked good, too, hair done, clothes smart, make-up toned down.
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