Yes, Mama

by Helen Forrester

  She ran from the room, forgetting to shut the door and had fled upstairs to the almost unused day nursery, not heeding Humphrey’s angry bellow, as he got up to shut the door. She had sat down on Polly’s chair and wept passionately, for the empty ache inside her and for her isolation.

  Now, on this miserable February morning, Polly came whirling down the servants’ stair, tying her morning apron as she came.

  When she saw the empty fireplace and Fanny all covered with soot, she stopped. ‘Aye, Fan!’ she cried. ‘Hurry up, luv. The Master will be wantin’ his shavin’ water and his brekkie.’

  Fanny turned her smudged face towards Polly and shrugged helplessly. Alicia said savagely, ‘Let him wait. It won’t hurt him.’

  Polly picked up a wooden tray and put it on the table. ‘Now, Allie, luv, none o’ that. Your Dad’s a busy man.’ She took a traycloth out of a drawer and laid it on the tray. Then she turned to the dresser to get the breakfast crockery.

  ‘He should buy us a gas stove, Polly. I’ve asked him several times. But, no. Coal was good enough for Mrs Tibbs, so it’s good enough for us.’

  ‘Well, it would save us a lot of work,’ agreed Polly, with a sigh. ‘But mostly we can manage. Couldn’t you do the flues at night, Fan?’

  ‘Often the range is too hot, still,’ Fanny replied, as she put a match to screwed-up newspaper she had laid in the grate. The wood on top of it began to crackle and she carefully added small pieces of coal.

  ‘Ah, well, I’ll give ’im scrambled eggs – they’re quick. Tell ’im the pork butcher didn’t ’ave no pigs’ ears. Butcher says they’re gettin’ harder to get, anyways.’ She picked up a tiny saucepan and went to the sink to fill it, and then gave it to Fanny. ‘’Ere you are, Fan. Put this on for ’is Nibs’ shavin’ water.’

  ‘I can’t do much until the fire gets going, so I’ll go up and dress,’ Alicia said wearily to Polly.

  As the green baize door at the top of the stairs flipped closed behind her, Polly remarked worriedly, ‘Our Allie is proper low these days.’

  Fanny shrugged, and took off her sackcloth apron and hung it on a hook. ‘Who wouldn’t be? She don’t have no fun, no friends, no nothin’. That old bastard keeps her kennelled like a dog, and her Mam’s never lifts a finger to help her.’ Fanny ran her tongue round her mouth and spat soot into the fire. Then she put the little saucepan over the flames. ‘What that girl needs is a young man to walk out with, strong enough not to be afraid of her ould man. Pack of bloody nuns we are, in this ’ouse.’

  Polly looked worried. ‘God forbid she gets mixed up with a man,’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t want her in trouble.’

  Fanny took a soot-blackened kettle, filled it at the tap and then hung it over the fire by a hook in the chimney. ‘Never did us any ’arm,’ she replied drily. ‘A bit of playin’ put and take would do us all good.’

  Polly had to smile. ‘You not doin’ so well with the new coalie, as you did with ould Jack?’ she inquired.

  Fanny made a vulgar gesture, and then sighed, ‘Jack were a good fella. I always fancied ’im. Kept ’is Missus goin’ and me, sometimes.’

  ‘No one better this side of Wigan,’ agreed Polly, though she herself had not succumbed to Jack’s charms. ‘It were the dust from the coal that put ’im in the Infirmary – definite.’

  Fanny nodded agreement. ‘It’ll be a bloody miracle if he ever gets out, with a cough like he’s got.’ She glanced round the kitchen, as she whipped the little saucepan off the fire. ‘Where’s old fishface’s shaving mug?’

  ‘Blast! I forgot to bring it down. It’s in the bathroom. Run up and fill it for me, duck, while I finish the brekkie trays. Then you could light the fire under the copper. There’s the tablecloths still to wash; I didn’t have time Monday.’

  ‘Oh, Jaysus!’ moaned Fanny, and trotted upstairs, hot saucepan in hand.

  She met Alicia coming out of the bathroom. The girl was shivering, having washed herself in cold water, as she usually did.

  ‘Aye, duck, you should wait till the kitchen fire heats the hot water. Fire’s blazin’. It won’t be long.’

  ‘You know Papa always lectured Charles and me on the benefits of washing in cold water,’ Alicia replied morosely. ‘Washing in warm water is waste of fuel, he says.’

  ‘He uses hot himself; he’ll raise Cain this mornin’ ’cos the tap won’t run that hot yet.’ She took the lid off the little saucepan and poured the steaming water into a rose-wreathed shaving-mug on the bathroom table. She was about to say something more when Humphrey suddenly emerged from his bedroom. He was wrapped in a heavy, camel hair dressing-gown and his fur-lined slippers could be heard brushing along the hall carpet.

  ‘Beat it,’ urged Fanny in a whisper to Alicia, and Alicia fled upstairs. The instinct to keep out of Humphrey’s way was still very strong.

  Later, Alicia ate a bowl of porridge with the maids and then again went upstairs to make her bed and clean her room.

  ‘The kid’s gettin’ desperate,’ declared Fanny, as she cleared the dishes and put them into the sandstone sink. ‘Do you think you could talk to Miss Webb about her? Proper nice, the old girl is. Get her to talk to the Missus, now she’s a bit more sober.’

  Polly looked tired and troubled. The baker had just delivered the day’s bread and she was putting it into the bread bin. She closed the heavy, metal lid slowly. ‘I’ll try again. She don’t get any pocket money these days – and the Missus always gave her some.’

  ‘It’s Allie who pays us, so she’s got money.’

  ‘That’s housekeepin’ only. And it’s time you and me got a raise. We haven’t had one for years.’

  Fanny made a wry mouth. ‘Wages isn’t goin’ up much anywhere.’

  II

  Polly was still wondering how to broach the subject of Alicia’s loneliness to Miss Webb when, the next day help came from an unexpected quarter. She answered a prolonged ring at the doorbell to find Charles, looking very cheerful, standing impatiently on the top step and stamping his feet to keep them warm in the bitter wind. His loose, tweed overcoat flapped around his legs and the ends of his long woollen scarf danced in the wind. On his head, he wore a greasy-looking deerstalker hat. One gloved hand clutched a Gladstone bag and the other a meerschaum pipe.

  ‘Lost my key,’ he explained, as Polly hastily shut the door before the house was totally chilled. ‘How are you, Polly, my old love?’

  She smiled and replied, ‘I’m very well, thank you, sir.’ She took his bag and put it on the floor, while he pulled off his scarf and overcoat. He handed the garments to Polly and took off his hat and put it on her head. ‘Where’s mother?’ he asked.

  Seated in the morning-room with Sarah Webb, Elizabeth had already heard her son’s voice, and she got up from her chair unusually quickly and went into the hall. ‘Why, Charles, this is splendid,’ she cried, as he bent to kiss her. ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘For a week this time.’

  ‘You should have written.’ She turned to Polly and ordered in her old, firm voice, ‘Ask Fanny to open up the blue bedroom – put a fire in it and get it aired. And bring me another teacup.’

  Charles shook Sarah’s hand, and it was she who ushered him closer to the fireplace, so that he could thankfully rub his hands before its warmth.

  As he exchanged pleasantries with both women, he felt that the room looked more depressing every time he returned home. The curtains were grey with dust and carelessly half drawn back, the chintz covers on the chairs were so worn that the pattern on them was barely visible. On every surface there was a clutter of books, sewing and old newspapers, something that he had not observed before. In her day, his mother had been such a methodical woman and he felt a sad pang when she sat down near him. She still had a fine, white skin, but a double chin and layers of fat had taken their toll. Her hair was bunched into an untidy bun covered with a snood at the back of her head.

  After he had inquired politely about his father and Alicia, who was at the
grocer’s, and a cup of tea and some biscuits had been pressed into his hand, his mother asked him if he had just come to see her or whether something special had occurred.

  With a mouthful of biscuit, he murmured, ‘Of course, I’ve come to see you. But I’ve also got an interview at the University College. They’re establishing a Chair of Bio-Chemistry.’

  His mother’s face brightened. At last the backing she had given her son in his studies was going to have some result of which Humphrey might approve, which would be a pleasant change.

  Charles saw the change in her expression, and he laughed. ‘No, Mama, I’m not yet qualified enough to hold a Chair. Where there is a Chair, however, there is usually a need for Readers and Lecturers – and laboratory staff – so I wrote a general, exploratory letter, and I received a very kind letter back from the man who will hold the Chair. He’s asked me to come to see him.’

  ‘That sounds very nice.’ She was a little disappointed.

  ‘It would mean, dear Mama, that I would not have to take any further financial help from you. You have been so good to me.’

  At these personal disclosures, Miss Webb rose and said that she should go home.

  ‘Oh, dear Aunt Sarah, don’t stand on ceremony. She mustn’t, must she, Mama? She knows all about us.’

  But Sarah Webb, who did know all about them, nevertheless felt that it was only ladylike to leave, so Polly was rung for to show her out, and Charles accompanied her to the front door, to save his mother getting up again.

  At the door, Sarah Webb took his hand in her tiny gloved one, and he bent to kiss her. She smiled and looked up at him. Then she said very earnestly, ‘It would do your family a world of good, Charles, if you do come home. Your mother – and little Alicia, particularly – need you.’

  While Polly stood in the background, politely deaf, blind and dumb, and inwardly rejoiced, Charles was suddenly very sober, not being clear in his mind as to her meaning. They do,’ Miss Webb assured him. ‘Goodbye, dear boy.’

  Polly helped Sarah on with her cloak and handed her her umbrella. After Sarah’s departure, Polly locked the door and Charles said to her uneasily, ‘Polly, what’s up? Really up, I mean?’

  Polly licked her lips and lowered her eyelids. She clasped her hands primly over her apron, while she sought for words. ‘I – er – I couldn’t tell you all in one go, sir,’ she whispered, with a pointed glance at the open morning-room door.

  ’is mother ill?’ Charles whispered back.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, she is, sir. Could I talk to you later, sir?’

  ’is she going to die, Polly?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. It’s not consumption or anythin’. It’s her and Miss Alicia’s spirits mostly.’

  ‘I see. Mother may herself confide in me.’

  Polly looked relieved. ‘Yes, mebbe she will, sir.’

  ‘When will the Master be in?’

  ‘He usually comes about seven o’clock – for dinner.’

  ‘Thank you, Polly.’

  She was dismissed. Feeling dispirited, she went slowly down to the basement kitchen.

  Very thoughtfully, hands in trouser pockets, Charles spun slowly round on his heels, gazing at the hall’s fine ceiling, now hanging with spiders’ webs. Alerted by Sarah, he was considering the state of his home with the same care that he would have used when looking at the results of one of his experiments. His eyes followed the worn carpet up the stairs. In the old days his mother would not have tolerated such a tattered stair rug, and he wondered if his father had lost money. The place reeked of neglect.

  III

  ‘Charles,’ yelled Alicia in a most unladylike way, as she ran into the morning-room to greet him. He caught her in his arms and swung her round.

  ‘My goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve grown up.’

  She tossed her head when he put her down. ‘I’m nineteen. I’ve been grown up for a long time – only you’ve never noticed it, you wretch.’

  He grimaced sheepishly. It was true. When he came north, he would pay a short duty visit to his family and then go to visit the livelier homes of his old friends, now married and scattered round Merseyside.

  As they sat around the fire, they discussed the reason for his visit.

  ‘You’ll live here, of course?’ Alicia asked hopefully.

  Well, at first I would,’ he hedged. He was determined not to be subject to his father any longer than he had to. If he got a post at the College, he would build a small house for himself and get a housekeeper.

  Humphrey received Charles’s news with more equanimity than his son had expected and promised to talk to him about it after dinner. He then went up stairs to wash.

  As the brass tap in the bathroom trickled hot water into the huge porcelain basin, he peered at himself in the mirror which was slowly steaming up. He felt immensely tired, drained of his usual vigour. ‘Damn her,’ he muttered, to himself, ‘damn her!’

  IV

  Humphrey had spent the previous two hours with Mrs Jakes. They had proved unexpectedly stormy. Instead of cosying up with him in her feather bed, she had first suggested a drink and had sat him down by her living-room fire. A little surprised, he had accepted a tankard of porter, while she took a glass of port.

  After a few moments of silence, she had said, It’s me daughter, our Stella May. You know she’s not really the marrying kind – and she were twenty-five come last Christmas – and that puts her on the shelf, if you know what I mean.’

  She took a sip of wine and then went on to suggest that Stella May would stand a better chance if she had a dowry, and Mrs Jakes hoped that dearest Humphrey would provide it.

  Dearest Humphrey had huffily refused; this was not the first request that his mistress had made for additional money. ‘She’s not my daughter,’ he said frostily. ‘In any case, she’ll inherit your shop. Wouldn’t that be enough to tempt a promising young man?’

  ‘Well, you know her,’ replied Mrs Jakes, sipping daintly at her port, while she controlled her anger. ‘She’s all right behind the counter, but she don’t know nothin’ about tobacco or how to blend it – nor about accounts – and she don’t seem able to learn.’ She bridled, and went on, ‘And in any case, I expect to live for many years myself, so I need the shop – it really don’t keep more’n one comfortable.’

  Humphrey considered the cloddish, amiable face of the young woman in question, and saw no reason why he should provide for her. ‘Whatever Stella May needs is your business,’ he told his paramour bleakly.

  Mrs Jakes pressed and argued until Humphrey’s irritation gave way to anger. He was sick of the whining bitch, he decided suddenly. He put down his tankard, rose from his chair and gathered up his top hat and gloves.

  Suppressing her fury, Mrs Jakes smiled up at him sweetly. ‘Don’t go yet,’ she urged. ‘If you don’t have the money, you could ask Mrs Woodman – make some excuse. I hear as she’s a well-off lady.’

  ‘My wife is no concern of yours.’ Humphrey rammed his hat on to his head. He was outraged at the calm suggestion.

  ‘Oh, but I always felt concerned for the pore dear. Bein’ an invalid, like.’

  Humphrey was perfectly aware of the implied threat behind the sweetness of the voice. It was the oldest of warnings from women like her: ‘I’ll tell your wife what you’ve been up to.’

  Mrs Jakes looked reflectively at her empty glass, as she continued, ‘If it isn’t convenient, like, to get it from her, I did hear as you’re likely to do very well out of the underground railway, when you’ve finished makin’ it electric. You don’t have to help our Stella May now, but, say, in six months’ time. What about then?’ she wheedled.

  He was still standing stiffly on the hearth rug, as if ready to leave, and she hastily put down her glass in the hearth and began to fiddle with the buttons of her high lace collar. ‘You think about it, dearie, and, meantime, let’s have a bit of a roll.’

  Slyly, she undid the buttons until the cleft between her heavy breasts was visibl
e, and she smiled up at him knowingly.

  Despite his fatigue, he felt a jump of desire; she would do anything for him in bed. But he was for the first time afraid of her, afraid of blackmail. It was one thing that most people, including your wife, knew that you kept a mistress – most well-to-do men did. But it was unpardonable if the mistress surfaced with loud complaints. He knew he must frighten her.

  He snatched up his overcoat and moved quickly to the lace-draped door of the shop. With his hand on the knob, he said firmly, ‘It seems that our friendship has come to an end. Good afternoon, Ma’am.’

  Followed by an outraged cry of ‘Humphrey!’ he closed the glass-panelled door and marched through the tiny shop, with its rich odour of molasses. He ignored Stella May’s simpering, ‘Evenin’, sir,’ and slammed the outer door after himself, so that the little bell screwed to it tinkled angrily.

  He stepped into the street. A small, nagging pain throbbed in his chest. The wind was freezingly cold and he struggled hastily into his greatcoat.

  He did not know why he was so glad to see Charles in the hallway, when Polly let him in. He had certainly never been fond of him, a boring bookworm, if ever there was one. But today, lurching in from the inclement weather, and being faced with a fairly sturdy young man, wreathed in friendly smiles, had been a relief. A son was a son, after all, especially when you felt old as well as furious.

  Now, he washed his trembling hands with carbolic soap and splashed his face with water. Charles had reminded him suddenly of Edward, buried in the African veldt, and the memory hurt him. He went slowly downstairs, to rest in the library until Polly should bang the dinner gong.

  After dinner, he sat with Charles by the library fire, a decanter of whisky on a small table between them, and Charles listened patiently to his worries about the poor state of the cotton market; the loss in the Mersey River, the previous month, of a schooner in which Humphrey had had a share; the uncertainty that the Mersey Underground Railway would make money even after electrification; the need to raise capital.