The Lemon Tree

by Helen Forrester

  He was beginning to feel more at home with Wallace Helena, and he leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘But now we’re faced with a very innovative competitor, in the shape of Mr Lever, trying for the same market. We often undercut the older firms, because our overheads are low – but Lever is another kettle of fish. He’s causing ripples throughout the industry.’

  ‘We’ll try to give him a run for his money,’ Wallace Helena promised, intrigued at the chance to outwit a smart man.

  ‘Well, I was trying to persuade Mr Al-Khoury to improve the presentation of our toilet soap, at least – a brighter wrapper, or something. But he passed away before we got down to it – and now we’re in limbo.’ The last words came out with a sigh.

  Wallace Helena observed his change of expression, the sudden woodenness of his rugged face. She began to realize his personal uncertainty – in limbo, he was, personally, and he also shared the uncertainty of the other employees. She knew she must soon make up her mind whether she would stay in England to guide the company – or sell it. It was not fair to the employees to dither. But there was Joe to consider. Could she persuade him to settle in a city, and if she did, what would he do? It would be like caging a tiger.

  She thought bitterly that, if Joe didn’t exist, she would never return to the hardship of her life in Canada – she would stay in Liverpool, and even, perhaps, take a look at making a second move back to Lebanon. And what would you do there, without a family or at least a man to protect you? she asked herself. She suddenly hated her kind, generous uncle for facing her with such a dilemma.

  In an effort to clarify Benji’s position, she said, ‘I remember Uncle James writing to Father and mentioning that he had a little boy. Was that you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Harding.’ He fidgeted uncomfortably, taking his hands out of his pockets and then clasping them in front of him on the side of her desk. He said abruptly, ‘I didn’t know you existed – I never saw your father’s letters, of course. Mr Benson told me about you.’

  ‘My father was the eldest and he used to worry about Uncle James. I’m sure he must have often scolded him when he wrote to him. That’ll be why you never saw the letters!’ There was a hint of humour in her voice, but it did not raise his spirits. ‘Probably you were too small to be able to read, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Harding.’

  ‘Stop Miss Harding me. I’m your cousin – that’s almost like a sister. Call me Wallace Helena, like a relation, can’t you?’ She got up from her chair and began to pace up and down impatiently. Then she stopped in front of him, and said contritely, when he didn’t answer, ‘You must miss your father dreadfully, and I’m truly sorry you’ve lost him.’

  ‘Thank you. I do miss him.’ He suddenly looked very exhausted, and she said gently, ‘I understand why you did not get any of Uncle’s Estate – and I’m sure it was not Uncle’s intention that I get it. But I’m stuck with it – and it’s causing me considerable heartache, believe it or not.’

  ‘Is it?’ He was surprised out of his depression. ‘Father simply didn’t expect to die, so he didn’t prepare for it. Which of us ever does?’

  ‘Not many,’ Wallace Helena admitted glumly. Her full skirt swished, as she returned to her chair. She opened a heavy box on her desk. ‘Like a smoke?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thanks. I smoke a pipe.’

  ‘Well, get it out and smoke it,’ she suggested, as she put a cigarello between her lips, and struck a match to light it.

  There was a strict No Smoking rule in the works, but he did not think this was an appropriate moment to mention it, so he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch and proceeded to pack the pipe. She threw the box of matches to him across the desk. ‘Your official designation is Assistant Manager, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He struck a match and lit his pipe.

  ‘Well, you continue what you’re doing for the moment, though I’ll consult you all along the way. We can’t make any changes until Probate is granted; but I’ll do my best to make up my mind quickly. If I sell, I’ll make sure you get a decent contract with the new owner, if you want it. How would that be?’

  ‘It’d help,’ he admitted, and pulled on his pipe. He had never before broken the No Smoking rule, for fear of fire. ‘Supposing you don’t sell?’

  ‘I’ll manage it myself,’ she replied, without hesitation. ‘I’ll work very closely with the senior employees, as Uncle did.’

  ‘As a woman, you’ll have particular difficulties.’

  ‘So I’m told,’ she responded dryly. ‘We shall see.’

  He warned her further. ‘You should be aware that a lot of changes are taking place in the industry. Mechanization on a big scale – it’s already very advanced in the bigger firms. Some employ German scientists – they’ve brought in some profound changes.’

  Wallace Helena whistled between her teeth, while she considered this. ‘That means money, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, capital.’

  She grinned at him suddenly. ‘We live in interesting times, don’t we? I imagine that if we have our wits about us, we can cope as well as anybody?’

  His mood lightened. It felt good to be included in the battles to come. She was obviously willing to face a challenge. But he agreed cautiously, ‘Well, yes. Minnows can swim along quite well beneath bigger fish – and not all of ’em get eaten!’

  She laughed, and he continued, ‘Tasker, Bobsworth, Ferguson – the Steam Engineer – and Turner. We’ve got good, informed employees. They used to meet in our sitting-room in the evenings. They’d spend hours bickering with each other, working out how to run the place, while Mother dished out cake and beer.’

  ‘Like family?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He drew on his pipe and settled back in his chair more comfortably. ‘Frankly, Turner’s a bit of an expense for a small firm like ours. But he’ll be useful if we go into emollients. And Frank Ferguson – well, he’s like all engineers, nowadays, he’s a king. He can name his own price anywhere. He was fond of my father, though, and I think he’ll stay with us, if we treat him properly. He’s always at war with old Bobsworth over costs.’

  Wallace Helena’s eyes glinted with amusement. ‘I know. When we were going over the books, Mr Bobsworth must’ve said a dozen times, “Mr Ferguson doesn’t appreciate that we can’t go rushing out to buy every bit of equipment that comes on the market. When we started we managed it much more cheaply without anything fancy.”’

  She had mimicked Mr Bobsworth’s petulant complaint exactly. They looked at each other and began to chuckle like a pair of disrespectful youngsters.

  He was agreeably surprised at what laughter did to her. She suddenly became human, approachable. And she was obviously perceptive – she’d got old Bobsworth down to a T.

  She was looking at him with kinder eyes now, though there was still a twinkle of amusement in them. She said, ‘Don’t worry too much. I shall be very careful in what I do.’ She picked up the sheaf of letters and handed them to him. ‘Meanwhile, there must be a lot of work which has accumulated in your absence – I guess you’d better get on with it.’

  He put the letters down on the desk, while he dowsed his pipe by fitting a small tin cover over the bowl. Then he got up slowly, nodding acknowledgment of her remark about his work as he did so. Having talked to her, he felt easier in his mind, but he wished his father were still sitting in the chair she occupied.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Harding.’ He bowed and quietly left the room.

  She wanted to get up and go after the young man to comfort him. He was cousin-brother to her and had been bereaved. But she felt that if she was to maintain her authority, she must keep her distance. It was a lonely feeling.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next morning, when Benji arrived at the plant, he found the day’s correspondence neatly piled on his desk. When asked, Mr Helliwell said that he had, as usual, opened the envelopes and, at Miss Harding’s request, handed the letters to her to read. He saw Benji’s li
ps tighten at this information, and hastened to add, ‘She said it was the quickest way to find out what was happening in the works. She said you’d deal with everything.’

  ‘Humph,’ Benji grunted, as he shuffled quickly through the pile. Wallace Helena had scribbled her suggestions on one or two of the letters and he made a face when he saw her notes. He said to Helliwell, ‘I’ll give you some dictation to be going on with, and we’ll do the rest when I’ve done my round of the works.’ He supposed he ought to be thankful that she had left any decisions regarding the matters raised in the letters to him. At least it showed a little trust.

  He met his cousin coming out of the small laboratory presided over by Mr Turner, a lanky man in his thirties. Wallace Helena’s set face told Benji immediately that she had not got along very well with the chemist He looked past her at Turner and raised an eyebrow in query.

  Turner blinked back at him through his gold-rimmed spectacles and shrugged almost imperceptibly. She had asked him to show her round his small laboratory and he had politely obliged, though tending to talk down to her as if she were a small girl to whom he was explaining profound mysteries. He had been taken aback when she made it clear that she knew the principles of soap-making; she made her own every spring, she had informed him tartly.

  When she saw Benji, she managed to smile and greet him. Without stopping to thank Mr Turner, she fell into step beside him and accompanied him through the works, as he went to see Mr Tasker about one or two matters and then to Mr Bobsworth about some points raised in customers’ letters. ‘Going to see the various mandarins?’ she remarked to him. He grinned at her, sensing that they would often share small jokes, treating each other like cousins, not employer and employee.

  They talked about the overheads of the works, how much they must sell to cover the basic costs of keeping the soapery open.

  As they left Mr Bobsworth’s office, she said, ‘I imagine that having a fox terrier like Mr Bobsworth barking at the heels of our mandarins saves a lot of waste?’

  ‘It does,’ he responded, though he did not sound very happy about it. ‘It’s also frustrating, because only Mr Benson can authorize any real change in expenditure. He’s the Executor – and he tends to execute.’ He waited for her to appreciate his pun, but she did not understand it, so he said, ‘I think he simply wants the soapery to tick over until Probate is received.’

  Or until I make up my mind, ruminated Wallace Helena fretfully. But what could a black man do in Liverpool? I’ve only to look at Alfie – the bottom of the pecking order here – to sense the prejudice. And I doubt if I could live in Liverpool without Joe.

  Benji found it irritating to have her often at his heels; he was young enough to feel that she might criticize the orders he gave to the various employees, and it was certain that the men tended to stare at her when he was speaking, rather than attending to his instructions. He underestimated the enormous curiosity about her amongst them.

  A couple of days after his first interview with her, he mentioned impatiently that old Bobsworth was, as usual, complaining because he, Benji, was about to run an advertisement for their toilet soaps in a number of local Lancashire newspapers. ‘He says our female customers can’t read, so what’s the good of an advertisement? Let them tell each other how good our toilet soap is, he says. It’s nonsense! A lot of women can spell out a newspaper. A sketch of a pretty woman and the words, “Your daughters need a perfect complexion. Use Lady Lavender toilet soaps” will draw their attention.’

  Wallace Helena could not resist a small giggle. Then she suggested shrewdly, ‘To keep the cost down, why not put it in two newspapers for several consecutive issues – you should be able to squeeze a better rate out of them for several advertisements. And see if sales improve in those particular districts. If they do, you could possibly persuade Mr Benson to agree to a wider series of advertisements, despite Mr Bobsworth’s opposition. You’re in charge of sales.’

  ‘I know – but I’m only Assistant Manager. If Father were here, he’d tell him to stick to his bookkeeping. But with Father gone, Bobsworth tends to throw his weight around – though he means well.’

  Wallace Helena gave one of her little whistles between her teeth. Then she said, ‘Well, I’m not supposed to make any decisions until Mr Benson has finished probating the Will, but I’d back you, if you want to ask him to O.K. the expense of the advertisements. Make sure you’ve plenty of soap in the towns you choose, though.’

  ‘Thanks. Advertising doesn’t always have any sudden effect; it simply reminds customers of the name.’

  ‘Well, I leave you to decide,’ she said, and then brought up another subject. ‘If I’m to sell soap and emollients, I should like to know more about English women. I really haven’t met any since I’ve been here, except Mrs Hughes, my landlady.’

  He turned to glance at her sallow, haggard face. Her remark brough home to him that she was not only struggling to understand his father’s business, but a whole society which was alien to her. He put down the layout of his proposed advertisement, to give his full attention to her.

  ‘Yes, of course. You don’t know anybody, do you? Father had a lot of business friends and acquaintances. I doubt if he ever met their wives – who might have called on you. Mother’s best friend is Sarah Tasker; they both know every woman living round them, but they’re not the kind to make formal calls, any of them – though I think they’d make themselves known, if you were living in the same street.’

  ‘Hmm. I’ve met Mrs Benson – but strictly between you and me, I thought her-dreadfully ignorant and stupid. And Mrs Hughes, who pries.’

  He surveyed her carefully, a small twinkle in his eyes. ‘I think you’d find most middle-class women total bores. I do.’

  She looked relieved. ‘It’s nice of you to say that; probably I’m boring to them.’

  ‘You’re streets ahead of ’em,’ he assured her firmly. ‘Too much for them; they don’t know how to cope with a woman as experienced as you are.’

  Though he had, in his irritation at her constant presence, been rather short with her that day, she warmed to him. Her long lashes flickered, as she glanced obliquely at him.

  He asked, ‘Would you like to meet Mother?’ His voice was uncertain, because, though she understood his mother’s relationship to her uncle, she might strongly disapprove of it.

  ‘Good God,’ she exclaimed, and sat down suddenly on her chair. ‘What have I been about?’

  He was shaken by her unexpected response, and he said defensively, ‘You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.’

  She smiled at him. ‘No. No. Of course I want to meet her. I’m so cross with myself that I did not consider her more. She must be feeling dreadful. Her loss is the greatest. And I’ve never thought about it.’ She banged her closed fist on the desk and her rings flashed in the morning light ‘Mr Benson mentioned her in connection with the Will, but, if I thought of her at all, it was as a lady who would resent me so much that she would not want to meet me. Do you really think she would want to meet me?’

  ‘Well, she’s very curious about you, now she’s got over the first shock of Father’s death.’ He sighed.

  ‘Should I go to see her?’

  He made a little face. ‘I think it’s usual for the resident lady to call on a newcomer.’

  ‘Humph. Well, tell her I’d enjoy meeting her and ask her to let me know when it would be convenient for her to call. How’s that?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll ask her,’ he promised. It would be a much-needed diversion for his mother, even if the two women hated each other on sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Benji evidently went home to lunch that day, because in the afternoon he brought a pink envelope to her office.

  As he waited expectantly while she ripped open the envelope, she smiled at him. Behind the smile, she was rather regretting the impetuosity of her behaviour that morning. Supposing the woman turned out to be a servile sycophant, bent on manipulating favours
out of her for her son? And just how much could she trust Benji himself?

  On pink notepaper decorated round the edges with improbable-looking small flowers, Eleanor Al-Khoury wrote in a large, irregular hand that she would be pleased to call at half past six that evening, after tea, and please to tell our Benjamin if that would be all right.

  Feeling that she was already committed, she agreed to the visit, though she said, ‘I’ve got a bad cold – I hope she doesn’t mind.’

  ‘We’ve all got them,’ Benji reassured her, and, indeed, his own voice suggested a thick catarrh.

  As he was about to leave the office, she asked him, ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’ It had not occurred to her before that there might be a number of young Al-Khourys.

  He shrugged. ‘No. I don’t think I’ve got any relations. Mother hasn’t any – except she told me once that there were some cousins of hers in Wales; but I don’t think she ever kept in touch with them. She was an only child, and her father left her the house we live in. And Father had no living relations, except your family.’ He paused thoughtfully, and then said, ‘So she must feel very lonely now – though I do my best for her.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. You must’ve had a lonely childhood?’

  ‘Well, I always had a few good friends. George Tasker’s eldest son, for one – till he went into the army.’ He fell silent, as he remembered the bullying of the local boys. They’d given him hell and called him Blackie, until he and Tom Tasker had grown big enough and ruthless enough to fight back to good effect.