A Dream of her Own

by Benita Brown

  He was alone and the room was quiet. He sat at the table with his books, illumined in a pool of light, and he looked up in surprise as Nella came in and shut the door behind her.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ The muscles of his face, slack with fatigue, suddenly tautened with alarm; he stood up, pushing his books aside. ‘Valentino? Is he—’

  ‘Valentino is sleeping like a baby,’ Nella laughed softly. ‘Why do they say that? Sleeping like a baby? The babies I remember from the workhouse seemed to cry all night and keep everybody else awake.’

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Frank pulled one of the chairs away from the table. ‘I think the saying means that babies are so innocent that they have no wicked thoughts to keep them from sleeping. But the poor scraps of humanity in the workhouse were probably too hungry to sleep.’

  Nella settled herself in the chair and waited until Frank resumed his place at the other side of the table. She looked at the books and papers spread out over the chenille cloth. ‘You work so hard,’ she said.

  ‘It’s what I want to do.’ He smiled and she saw that you didn’t have to be handsome to be attractive. ‘But why are you out of bed when you should be sleeping?’ he asked. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, although it’s a wonder I divven’t hev indigestion every night, the amount of food yer ma expects me to eat.’

  ‘She enjoys looking after you.’

  ‘I know, and I’m grateful ...’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Frank, I’ve thought about how I was gannin’ to say this but there’s no other way except to come right out with it. I want to leave here.’

  ‘You want to leave Valentino? It would break his heart.’

  ‘Divven’t look at me like that. Of course I divven’t want to leave Valentino. I want him to come with me. I can afford to buy me own place - and before you object, I can afford to pay people to look after us, Jimmy Nelson included. In fact I want a house big enough to allow the lad to live with us so that he can get more sleep than he does now.’

  Frank stared at her. He had picked up one of his pencils and he was twisting it round. Nella noticed how well-shaped and supple his fingers were. ‘That would make sense, of course,’ he said, ‘having Jimmy and perhaps your own personal maid to live with you and be there all the time.’

  ‘I’ve already got a lass in mind for the position: Alice, a girl I used to work with. She’s young but she’s strong and I think I could teach her my ways.’

  ‘Whereas my mother is old and getting weary - and she would never learn new ways!’

  ‘God bless her, why should she? But she still wants to treat Valentino like a child ... and me too. It might seem odd to you, being the way we are, but yer brother and I are like many another married couple - we’d be better off in our own place. And you know that you would nivver hev to worry about Valentino; not while he has me.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that and I think my mother sensed it right from the start too. She saw what kind of person you are.’

  Nella grinned. ‘And what kind of person is that?’

  ‘Someone who can be trusted. Someone who would not break promises. Someone who would be loyal and true.’

  ‘Give over!’

  Frank laughed when he saw her expression. ‘I’m not joking. And I think you are right about leaving here. And right to come to me; I’ll explain things to my mother. She will understand that a woman wants to be mistress of her own kitchen.’

  ‘Kitchen!’ Nella assumed an expression of mock horror. ‘After the years I spent in the kitchen at Rye Hill, I nivver want to set foot in a kitchen again. And if you mean cooking, then I intend to hire the best cook I can afford!’

  ‘Then be careful that my mother does not apply for the job.’

  They smiled at each other and Nella thought how much she liked this man. When he fulfilled his ambition and became a doctor, his patients would be very lucky.

  ‘That’s that, then. I’d better get back to bed,’ she said.

  ‘Wait, Nella. There’s something I want to ask you.’

  He looked embarrassed and Nella thought that he might be going to question her about his brother ... about whether everything was working out all right as far as the marriage bed was concerned.

  So she was surprised when he said. ‘Your friend ... the girl who came to the coffee shop that day...?’

  ‘Constance?’

  ‘Yes, Constance Edington. How did you meet her?’

  She wanted to ask him why he wanted to know, but she saw that he couldn’t meet her eyes. Suddenly Nella remembered Constance staring down into an empty teacup when she had mentioned Frank and she felt the same twinge of unease as she had done that day. She hoped she was wrong. There was no hope down that path.

  She saw that Frank was gripping his pencil so tightly that she feared it might snap. ‘Constance and I worked together at the Sowerbys’ house,’ she told him. ‘But we first met when we were children.’

  ‘How?’ At last his curiosity made him look up and Nella saw that he was trying to imagine how two such different children could possibly have crossed paths.

  ‘In the workhouse when she arrived there with her ma.’

  ‘I see. Poor Constance.’

  ‘Poor me!’

  ‘Of course . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, divven’t worry, I know what you mean.’ Nella sighed. ‘Constance is a lady, there’s no question. And me? Well, I don’t even know who me feyther is.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘See? I can’t even speak proper!’

  ‘Don’t, Nella. You have done very well and I’m sure Constance values you for what you are.’

  ‘Do you, Frank? Well, I always hoped so. But since she got married I just divven’t know.’

  ‘She married John Edington.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He comes here, to the restaurant ... or rather to one of the private dining rooms.’

  ‘With a woman?’ She couldn’t disguise her dismay.

  ‘No, not with a woman. With a - a friend of his, Matthew Elliot. They - they like to be alone together.’

  He looked at her as if he wanted to say more and, after a short silence, she answered his unspoken question. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’ve learned a lot in the theatre besides how to work an audience, Frank, and I’ve nothing against those fellows. Live and let live is what Harry says. But I still can’t help thinking poor, poor Constance.’

  ‘Yes, poor Constance,’ Frank echoed, and the pencil he was holding snapped in two.

  It was still pitch-black when Polly opened the back door. She was expecting to see her sister, and Jane was standing there sure enough, but so was Albert Green.

  ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning?’

  ‘That’s a nice way to greet your sweetheart!’

  Jane burst into giggles and slipped by into the kitchen. Polly smiled. ‘Come on in out of the cold, you big daft lump. I’ve just put the kettle on. Jane, have you had any breakfast?’

  Her younger sister shook her head and Polly brought a loaf of bread and a bowl of dripping from the pantry. ‘Here you are.’ She gave Albert the bread knife. ‘Make yourself useful and cut us a slice each. Jane, when you’ve hung your coat up, fetch the cups and saucers. Lucky I got the fire going, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll make some lucky fellow a grand wife,’ Albert said, and he winked at Jane, who giggled even more than before.

  ‘Hush!’ Polly admonished. ‘We don’t want to wake anybody up before we’ve had this little time to ourselves.’

  For, of course, she hadn’t really been surprised to see Albert. He had taken to calling by first thing whenever he was on early shift, just to spend some time with her, even though it meant getting out of bed at least an hour earlier than he needed to.

  Polly relished the early mornings. She didn’t mind getting up to get the range going, though, strictly speaking, that was one of Jane’s duties now. In the morning, when the hous
e was quiet, she could spend time with her sister and spoil her a little, for God knew how hard the girl’s life was in the overcrowded slum where the rest of the family lived.

  And when Albert planted his big feet under the scrubbed clean table she could even pretend for a while that this was her kitchen; her own happy home. And it was only now, before anyone else was up and stirring, that there was any happiness in this house, it seemed.

  She smiled with contentment as she watched Albert standing by the table and slicing the bread. ‘Albert Green, take your muffler off or you won’t feel the benefit,’ she ordered.

  He snapped to attention and pretended to salute. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  If Jane hadn’t been there she would have kissed him. In fact she would probably have ended up sitting on his knee instead of across the table from him, watching him spoon out the dark brown jelly from the bottom of the bowl and mixing it with the dripping on the doorstep that he’d cut for himself.

  ‘Pass the salt, pet,’ he said to Jane, and for a while none of them said anything as they washed down their breakfast with hot, strong, sweet tea.

  When they had finished, Polly washed the dishes herself and sent Jane up to start the fires. ‘Flo will be down any minute for boiling water for the babies’ bottles,’ she said. ‘As soon as you hear her up and stirring, go and see to the nursery fire - you can mind the girls till Flo gets back.’

  ‘Right oh.’ But Jane hesitated by the door.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘What about the sewing room?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Am I to do the fire in there?’

  ‘Of course. The room must be kept warm all day. When Mr Edington comes home from work he goes straight up there.’ And I wish he didn’t do that, Polly thought. I wish he would make the effort to spend more time with his wife.

  Jane made no move to go. She looked worried.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Well ... I think Mr Edington and . . . I think he’s still in there.’

  ‘That’s right, Polly,’ Albert volunteered. ‘I met up with Jane at the end of the terrace and when we got to the gate we saw that the lights were on in the room in the tower.’

  ‘I suppose Mr Edington could have left the lamps burning - forgotten to turn them off. I mean he works so late in there on his designs for his shop, perhaps he was too tired to notice.’ ‘No, he’s in there. We saw him,’ Jane said.

  ‘They’re both there,’ Albert added. ‘Him and his friend.’

  ‘Mr Elliot put the money up for his shop,’ Polly said, glancing towards her sister. ‘He has every right to be there, checking the designs and such like.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Albert said. ‘Well, they must have been working all night.’

  ‘You definitely saw them?’

  ‘Yes, Polly.’ It was Jane who answered. ‘And I don’t know about working, but they were standing by the window, close together ... and the curtains were open and ... they looked like they were arguing.’

  ‘Arguing?’ Polly didn’t know why she was relieved that her sister had said arguing. She had worried for a long time now about the amount of time that Mr Edington spent with his friend and she remembered how his mother hadn’t exactly welcomed Mr Elliot to the house when she was alive.

  She had heard the rumours about Mr John’s father and why he had left home but she had only half understood them. Once she had tried asking Albert but he had only blushed and told her not to believe everything she heard. The trouble was that Polly had never completely understood what she had heard or what it was that people had been hinting at.

  But now it seemed that the master had stayed in his sewing room all night and whether he was with Mr Elliot or not didn’t matter. What did matter was that his poor little wife had been left alone once again. Polly knew about babies - her mother had had enough of them, hadn’t she? And she knew that Mr Edington could have gone back to his wife’s bed months ago - if he had wanted to.

  Poor Mrs Edington. Oh, she had had some funny ways at first but her heart was in the right place and she knew how to treat her servants; she had learned quickly. Polly couldn’t have asked for a better mistress.

  ‘Just leave the sewing-room fire, Jane,’ she said. ‘It’s his own fault if the room gets cold.’

  Constance awoke to the sound of sobbing. At first she thought the sounds were coming from the nursery and she half rose from her bed but, when the sleep cleared a little, she realized it could not be either of the children, neither could it be Florence. The sobs were ragged and of too low timbre to be those of a woman. It was a man who was crying. It must be John.

  But why should John cry? Surely not because of the pain he had caused her? He had never explained his behaviour - he had left her alone to try to make sense of this strange marriage of theirs. Sometimes she believed the only escape from her tormented thoughts was in sleep.

  The room was dark. There was only a faint glow from the hearth. The fire had been banked up the night before and the embers were glowing. In the morning, before it was light, Jane would come and rake it and blow some life into it with the bellows before building it up again, and then Polly would bring her a cup of tea ...

  Constance lay back and pulled the bedclothes up around her shoulders. She went back to sleep.

  ‘Please calm yourself! You will rouse the whole household.’

  Matthew gripped John’s shoulders and tried to hold him still. It was early morning and still dark outside. He caught sight of their reflections in the window behind them and it crossed his mind that, if anybody saw them, it would look like a scene from a melodrama - as though he was about to murder his friend.

  Gradually the sobs subsided. Matthew couldn’t make up his mind as to whether John’s tears had been prompted by rage or sorrow. Surely not sorrow? Surely John’s emotions didn’t run deep enough for him actually to love someone and to feel grief because they must part?

  He had loved John, there was no question of that, but he had always accepted the little shopkeeper for what he was: an enchanting, beautiful boy who demanded his attentions and his gifts as of right. If the truth were known, he was the one who was heartbroken, not John.

  Rage then. Or rather outrage because something he had enjoyed was over and he had not been consulted about its ending. The sobbing had stopped and John was glaring at him.

  ‘Let go of me.’

  Matthew felt his heart contract. John’s hair was dishevelled, his complexion pale and his blue eyes huge. Matthew saw more clearly than ever what he was losing. But he had no choice.

  ‘Only if you promise to sit down and listen to reason.’

  John nodded sullenly and Matthew dropped his hands. His friend turned abruptly and went to sit by the dying fire. ‘Explain,’ he said. ‘Explain, if you can, why you should treat me like this.’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Matthew followed him warily, not wanting to do anything that might start another fit of hysteria. ‘I am to be married.’

  John remained staring sullenly ahead. He didn’t say anything, so Matthew sat down in the chair opposite.

  ‘I am married,’ John said at last. ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘The difference lies in the girls we’ve chosen. Eleanor Heslop is from a different world to your sweet Constance.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me. What you mean is that you are frightened of her father the coal baron!’

  John’s statement was close enough to the truth for Matthew to simply shrug and say, ‘Perhaps it’s Eleanor herself that I am frightened of. She’s a veritable amazon.’

  In spite of himself, this roused John’s curiosity. ‘Is she not beautiful? I couldn’t bear to think of you with some ugly old hag!’

  The note of hysteria was creeping back and Matthew reached for John’s hand. He didn’t shake him off.

  ‘Eleanor is neither ugly nor old,’ Matthew said. ‘She is tall and lithe and beautiful, and her mind is razor-sharp. And she is th
e same age as I am, twenty-five.’

  ‘On the shelf, then?’

  ‘She has remained unmarried only because her father is wary of fortune-hunters.’

  ‘And they couldn’t accuse you of that.’ John snatched his hand away. ‘For goodness’ sake, Matthew, your family is fabulously wealthy; it can’t be the money you’re after!’

  ‘Not exactly. It is expected of me that I make a good marriage. You’ve always known that, admit it.’