The House of Women

by Catherine Cookson

  …Yes…and always would.

  PART TWO

  POSSESSIONS

  1973

  One

  ‘I think they’re lovely, Henry, beautiful. Do you know, I hate to part with them. I would say don’t give them away, if they weren’t going to Emma. You know, you are clever.’

  Lizzie picked up a set of strings with handles attached and began to manipulate the beautifully dressed, twelve-inch figure of Cinderella, saying as she did so, ‘Walk! Prince Charming.’

  Henry picked up another set of handles and in a moment Prince Charming was walking towards Cinderella and bowing from the waist.

  When Lizzie tried to make Cinderella curtsey she succeeded only in crossing the puppet’s feet, and she started to laugh; then, laying the puppet down, she said, ‘But of the three, you know, I think I like Buttons; he’s so appealing.’ And she added, ‘She’ll soon have a collection, what with the Seven Dwarfs and Jack the Giant Killer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Henry continued to place the puppets in folds of Christmas paper and lay them in their boxes as he said, ‘It’ll be like last year; the Lord of the Manor will have bought her so much that everybody else’s presents will be eclipsed.’ He looked up at Lizzie, saying, ‘Did you ever know anyone dote on a child like he does?’

  ‘No, I never have. If Peggy herself had had one tenth of such devotion from her father she would have had a happier time as a child. But then, there’s another side to this. I think you can have too much of a good thing. He monopolises her every minute and I have the feeling that Peggy doesn’t like it. She doesn’t say anything, but you know Peggy. Talk about being thrust into maturity: she’s still only a month off twenty-two and there she is with the barracks on her shoulders and my mother still dizzying about, and Gran…and Gran kicking eighty, acting skittishly. Honestly, Henry, when I think back to when I first saw Andrew Jones in that mucky room, the thin weed of a lad with nothing about him, I cannot believe he’s the same person represented by Mr Andrew Jones, not only head of the showrooms, but…Mrs Funnell’s right-hand man.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to hand it to him. I do myself. He was the first one to get it through to your grandmother that it would be a good thing to use the forecourt on a Sunday for the sale of second-hand cars.’

  ‘Yes; but you had thought about it before, hadn’t you? You didn’t think she would approve. But it was you who had to fight to get double time for the men who worked on a Sunday.’

  ‘That’s beside the point, dear; he got it through.’

  ‘But you started the driving school.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, yes, I did,’ he said, ‘but he topped that with the car-wash.’

  ‘My goodness, yes.’ She nodded. ‘And what did that cost? It makes me wild when I think, it does really, that Gran’s as much taken with him as he is with the child. And there’s Peggy: she could be an outsider of no consequence. When you’re in the house, it’s always Andrew this and Andrew that from Gran. And Andrew’s monotone, “What does Mrs Funnell say about it?” Oh! He’s got his buttons on all right, that one. I first realised it the day of Len’s funeral, when I spilled the beans. That’s when his mind started working…He’ll be after your job next, you’ll see.’

  ‘Well, that wouldn’t trouble me, my dear. I know I could still step into Rankins. He’s a Rotarian, you know, the boss down there. We’re not supposed to help each other in a business way, are we?’—he pulled a face at her—‘But I know he would welcome me into his band. So, whatever Mr Jones has up his sleeve, he’ll let it slide out one of these days and it won’t make the slightest difference to me.’

  ‘You’re wonderful. Do you know that?’

  ‘Look out! Look out! the puppets will be dancing on the floor in a moment.’ He pushed the box further back on the table, then put his arm about her and gazing into her face, said, ‘I worry about nothing, not a thing. I have you and that’s all that matters. You brought me happiness that I never thought I would know again in this world, and you’ve added to it every day.’

  She put her fingers to the top of his brow and traced a three inch scar downwards to the back of his ear, thinking as she did so, and not for the first time, that he had nearly paid dearly for his happiness. He still paid with violent headaches, but it could have been so much worse.

  Following the first operation, two others had kept him in hospital for two months. It had been four months altogether before he returned to the works, by which time Andrew Jones had been installed in the showrooms as assistant salesman. What was more, his posters were displayed on every available space on the walls, and on fancy artists’ easels here and there between the cars. He was also allowed a car for his own use.

  In the house he now wined and dined in a style that not even Grandfather Funnell had ever done, but all paid for by Grandfather Funnell’s wife, who seemed to have become rejuvenated by the smart, young, fast-talking Mr Jones.

  ‘Well, come on, woman; are you ready? You carry the puppets and I’ll take the case. You sure everything’s in there? Don’t forget last Christmas when you forgot your mother’s and we had to come dashing back for it, and it snowing like blazes. And mind’—he turned to her—‘we’re not staying long. We’ve got our own Christmas tree to see to. And I’m going to get drunk tonight.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘We’re both going to get drunk tonight.’

  ‘We’re not.’

  ‘We’re not? All right, we’re not. But we’ll see. Yes, we’ll see.’

  Arrived at the house, Lizzie’s criticising reaction was still with her. ‘My! My!’ she said as she opened the door, ‘No expense spared. Look at those lights! Every window ablaze. And to think when Peggy was little Gran wouldn’t let me switch on the tree lights until Christmas Eve. It meant nothing, she used to say, if they were switched on earlier. And look’—she pointed—‘that’s an innovation: fairy lights on these outside trees.’

  ‘Come on, come on, it’s Christmas; we’ll pull them to bits when we get back.’

  Entering the hall, they both blinked against the dazzling lights from the twelve-foot Christmas tree situated to the right of the stairs. Then Lizzie, looking up the stairs to where Peggy was descending with a tray of crockery in her hands, said, ‘Who’s in bed?’

  ‘Gran.’

  ‘Not again! She does this every Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Give me the tray, lass.’ Henry took the heavily laden tray from Peggy’s hands and put it on a side table as Lizzie said, ‘Did she have her dinner and tea all at once?’

  Peggy looked at her mother, and smiling, answered, ‘Well, you should know, Mam; she always had an appetite after a fainting fit. It was the only way she could regain her strength. Remember? How are you?’

  Lizzie was taking off her coat and hat now and laying them on a chair as she said, ‘I’m fine, fine. The question is, how are you? You look drained.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect, Mam, it’s Christmas. Who isn’t drained at Christmas?’

  ‘Where is Emma?’

  Peggy answered Henry’s enquiry by thumbing upwards, saying, ‘Having her bath.’

  ‘Will she be going straight to bed?’

  Peggy turned to her mother, saying, ‘Yes, but not to sleep.’

  ‘Well, in that case we can open the presents and put them round the tree. Before we do that, though, I’ll pop up and see her.’ She turned towards the stairs, only to have her daughter say sharply, ‘No, no!’ Then her voice changing, Peggy went on, ‘Andrew’s up there seeing to her.’

  ‘Well’—Lizzie stopped—‘I don’t suppose he’ll object to me seeing my grandchild bathed.’

  Peggy moved her head in a gesture that brought her mother’s and Henry’s full attention on her, and they waited for some seconds before Peggy, moving up the hall towards the drawing room, explained, ‘It’s…it’s his particular part of the day; he…he likes to see to her himself.’

  Lizzie and Henry again looked at each other as they followed her into the room
, and sat on the couch. Their minds being on Emma, they waited for Peggy to go on, but after placing a piece of wood on the fire she turned to them with a smile, saying, ‘What about a drink?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’ Henry grinned at her. ‘I’ll have a whisky, neat, and this lady here will have a gin and lime.’ Then leaning closer towards Lizzie, he said, ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like a sherry?’ This was a joke between them, and Lizzie retorted, ‘No, sir, thank you; as you said, a gin and lime.’

  Straight-faced now, Peggy said, ‘Sherry is for occasions and this is no occasion, not even special company.’

  ‘Go on with you.’

  When the door had closed on her daughter, Lizzie looked at her husband and said, ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me; and this is not the place to discuss it.’

  ‘She was afraid of me going up there, wasn’t she? Why? And this isn’t the first time.’

  ‘Well, my dear, I don’t think you can find anything sinister in the fact that a man wants to see his child bathed at night. And we know he’s crazy about her. But then, who wouldn’t be? She’s beautiful and cute and brighter than most for a five-year-old.’

  ‘He’s ruling this house, it appears to me.’

  ‘Well, he has done, dear, since he first came in. He’s got the support of the owner, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes; yes, you’ve put your finger on it, he’s got the support of the owner.’

  The door opened again and Peggy entered carrying a tray on which there were three drinks. She handed the whisky to Henry, the gin and lime to her mother, then took the third herself, and her mother said, ‘What’s that? That looks a dark mixture, what is it?’

  ‘Brandy and port.’

  ‘Brandy and port?’ Henry got this in before Lizzie got over her gasp. When she did she repeated, ‘Brandy and port? When did you take to this?’

  ‘I was told it was a very good pick-me-up, and it is. It takes the heat out of life.’

  They both stared at the young woman before them, sipping now at a brandy and port. Her maturity seemed to have slipped from her. To Lizzie she looked once more like the young girl who had found herself pregnant and didn’t want to marry. But the impression vanished as she repeated to herself: Takes the heat out of life. She was looking, not at a twenty-one-year-old girl, a young and beautiful twenty-one-year-old girl, but a twenty-one-year-old girl that could be taken for thirty, and who was drinking a mixture of brandy and port to ease the strain of her life.

  ‘I got a Christmas Box from Great-Gran.’

  ‘What was that? A year’s free petrol? Or a box of fruits, something that you could all share?’

  ‘Don’t be cynical, Mam. My present is alive.’

  ‘Alive? Oh, a dog?’

  ‘No, no. She wouldn’t have a dog about the place.’

  ‘A horse?’

  ‘No; don’t be silly.’

  ‘Well, come on, put me out of my agony.’

  ‘A daily help, full-time. Thirty pounds a week and her meals.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Oh yes. I had the go-ahead last weekend and I interviewed the fourth applicant this morning. She’s a widow, twenty-nine, likes housework, so she says, can cook, and seems to have a very pleasant disposition.’

  ‘I can’t believe it! Wonders will never cease. Is it because you’ve taken a stand since Mother’s been taking to her bed?’

  ‘Well, perhaps.’ Peggy took another sip from her glass. It would have been humiliating for her to say to her mother, ‘I had nothing to do with it; it was the bright boy who made the suggestion to the grand dame.’ And had she told them the reason that was at the back of the suggestion, they would not have believed that either. On second thoughts, yes, perhaps her mother would, if she remembered her previous husband. And had her mother ever said to him: ‘Leave me alone, I’m too tired. You have spent most of your day sitting in your office while I, from seven o’clock this morning until ten tonight, have been at the beck and call of two old women; I have seen to the needs of my child, and in between times I have cooked the meals and done whatever I could towards keeping this mausoleum clean.’ Yes, very likely she had. But had her husband said, ‘Very well, we’ll see what some domestic help can do towards inspiring your sex urge’? She doubted it, or else her mother would have had help.

  Inspiring her sex urge. He talked like that these days. He had talked like that for a long time now. Did her mother guess there was a battle going on in this house; in fact, various battles? The battle of the bed to start with; then the battle against the combined forces of her husband and her great-grandmother—they were most certainly joined now—and the other battle, an unspoken battle as yet, but one that would soon come into the open. It must. Yes it must.

  ‘Look—’ Her mother interrupted her pondering. ‘Shall I come over first thing in the morning and give you a hand? I can, you know; I’ve only got him to see to…’ and she turned and looked at Henry as though she disapproved of having to do so, while Henry smiled back at her. But Peggy said quickly, ‘No, no! Everything’s done: turkey stuffed, the pudding has been made this past five weeks. Gran did that, you know, as usual, and she made the cake and I’ve iced it. Yesterday she made the mince pies, and today I cooked a tongue and a small ham and…’

  ‘Good gracious! How many are you having tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, there’s seven of us, then Auntie May and Frank and Charlie, so that’ll be ten for dinner. Then, in the evening Andrew has invited the showroom staff and their wives. That will be another ten.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lizzie raised her eyebrows. ‘This is a new departure, isn’t it, the staff and their wives being invited here?’

  ‘Well—’ Peggy drained her glass before walking to the table and placing it in the tray, and her back to her mother, she said, ‘When one is an executive one must act like an executive, mustn’t one?’ Then looking over her shoulder, she enquired, ‘Are you coming up to see Great-Gran?’ and began to walk towards the door.

  Lizzie paused for a moment, then rising, said, ‘Yes; yes, of course. You coming, Henry?’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘No; not if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, let’s say I don’t want to.’

  This little side-play caused Peggy to stop and wonder, and it also gave Lizzie the opportunity to try to bring a smile to her daughter’s face and perhaps ease the tension she saw there. ‘You know something?’ she said to Peggy. ‘He will repeat everything I say, part of it at least, and it can get on your nerves, you know.’

  Peggy smiled and, looking towards her stepfather, she said, ‘Yes, I can imagine how he gets on your nerves,’ at the same time questioning why her mother should be so happy, and she a settled woman forty years old, whereas she was twenty-one and so miserable inside that there were days where she wanted to take to her heels and run. Run away from the two old women. Run from the ambitious young man who was her husband and who was bringing fear into her existence, a horrible fear to which she daren’t put a name and which had sprung into life a month ago. She wished she could talk about it to her mother, but that would be fatal. It would be equally fatal to talk about it to her Auntie May. She could to Charlie, though. Yet how could she bring such a subject up to Charlie? Oh, she could talk to Charlie about anything. Oh, Charlie. Charlie.

  She said now, ‘Have you heard about Charlie?’

  ‘What about Charlie?’

  Mother and daughter were walking down the room together. ‘He’s going to London to give a concert. His agent phoned him last week. He won’t be on the stage all the time, he said, his will be just a little spot. He’s always playing himself down. Auntie May, though, said there’s only a quartet, and after he’s done some solo pieces he’s playing with them. Mr Reynolds is going with him; if his legs will hold out, that is, Charlie said.’

  ‘My! My! He’s certainly going places. Well, May always said he would. And of course he’s slept and eaten with that guitar over the past five
years. How many hours a day has he been practising since he left school?’

  ‘At least six.’

  ‘Enough to drive anybody mad. But then May thinks the sun shines out of him. She must be stone deaf. For meself, I could never see what’s in guitar playing.’

  ‘Well, you’ve heard him play.’ They were going up the stairs now.

  ‘Yes; yes, I do grant you he can play that thing.’

  They had reached the landing when the first door in the corridor opened and out stepped a man who seemed to have no connection with the boy Andrew Jones, for here was a handsome, well-built and tall man, and he was naked except for a small towel tucked round his waist. The child in his arms. She too was naked except for a small towel around her shoulders. And it was she who cried, ‘Oh, Grandma. Grandma. It’s Christmas tomorrow.’ Then, ‘Mammy, must I go to bed?’

  Neither Lizzie nor Peggy spoke, for Andrew, after one glance at them, had hurried along the corridor towards the far end where the nursery was situated.

  The mother and daughter walked on towards the third door on the other side of the corridor and which led into Mrs Funnell’s room. But they paused a moment outside and Lizzie said quietly, ‘Does he always take his bath with her?’

  Almost in a hiss now Peggy leant toward her mother and said, ‘Yes; yes he does. Is there anything wrong in that? She’s a baby.’

  After a moment of looking back into her daughter’s eyes, Lizzie said quietly, ‘She’s five years old and children seem to mature quickly these days.’ Then, stepping forward, she tapped on the door, saying in a louder voice now, ‘It’s me. May I come in?’ And when the answer came, ‘Yes, yes, come in,’ she opened the door and they went in, to be greeted with, ‘And what were you standing outside whispering about?’