The Fountain

by Mary Nichols

  ‘I’ll go and dish up dinner,’ she said. ‘By the way, I saw your mother while I was out and asked her to come to lunch tomorrow.’ There was still tension between the two women, but it had eased a little since Alison’s birth. ‘You will be home early, won’t you?’ George usually left off at half past twelve on Saturdays, but just lately there had been any number of reasons why he had been kept late at the office.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  The woman standing on the step had frizzy carroty hair, a freckled nose and green eyes. Her black skirt was too tight considering she was somewhat plump. It was topped by a shabby jacket. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Kennett,’ she said. ‘They told me at the yard I’d find him here.’

  ‘He doesn’t usually deal with business matters at home,’ Barbara told her. ‘Couldn’t you wait and see him at the office on Monday?’

  ‘This i’n’t business, it’s personal and it’s urgent.’

  ‘Come in. I’ll go and fetch him.’ She stepped aside to let the caller in, then turned to go back to the sitting room, unaware that Rita had followed her. ‘George, there’s someone to see you.’

  George looked past her to the woman behind her. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Rita Younger, Mr Kennett.’

  ‘God in heaven!’ The exclamation came from Elizabeth who was sitting with Alison on her lap. ‘What are you doing here? What do you want with my son?’ She had turned very pale but there was such venom in her blue eyes it frightened Barbara.

  ‘I’m sorry to butt in,’ Rita said, glancing briefly at Elizabeth but addressing George. ‘My husband’s disappeared, packed his bags and cleared off. I thought you might know where he’s gone.’

  ‘Me?’ George queried. ‘Why should I know where he is?’

  ‘He told me he’d been doing a special job for you, said it was hush-hush and he was going to be promoted.’

  ‘Nonsense. No doubt he’s got himself in a scrape and is making himself scarce. Nothing to do with me. Now, I must ask you to leave.’

  Barbara, appalled at her husband’s brusqueness, showed Rita to the front door. ‘I’m very sorry we couldn’t help, Mrs Younger,’ she said. ‘I hope your husband contacts you soon.’

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ Rita said with a laugh. ‘Oh, well, back to the grindstone.’ And she was off, tottering down the short path to the road on her high heels.

  Barbara returned to the sitting room. Elizabeth was still hostile. ‘That woman spells trouble, George. Keep out of her clutches.’

  He laughed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mum, she’s only the wife of one of my employees. Ex-employee, as it happens. What are you getting so worked up about?’

  ‘I’m not getting worked up. It’s just…’ She paused, realising she had to go on or be quizzed. ‘Her mother was – probably still is – the town whore. And judging by the look of the daughter, she’s following in her footsteps.’

  ‘I don’t think we should jump to conclusions,’ Barbara said quietly. ‘She seemed genuinely worried about her husband.’

  The man’s disappearance was down to George, Barbara was sure of it, but did her mother-in-law know something she did not? Ought she to tackle them about it or go and see Mrs Younger and talk to her about it? But what would that achieve? If her own confused feelings were anything to go by, Mrs Younger would be better off left in ignorance.

  Rita was more angry than worried. For over a year Colin had been settled, going to work like a lamb every day, giving her housekeeping money every Friday. True, he kept a large chunk to spend at the pub and he went out with his mates on a regular basis, but he took her out sometimes too. And he had been excited about this special job Kennett had given him, saying it would be the making of them. And then he had disappeared. She should have known it was all pie in the sky. God knows why she’d believed him: he always had been a lying bastard. But then, so was George Kennett, she’d bet her last shilling on it.

  ‘It’s that wife of his I feel sorry for,’ her mother said when Rita relayed the encounter. ‘You remember, we were outside the church when they got married? I didn’t realise it was Kennett’s boy she was marrying until I read it in the Gazette afterwards. Mr Bosgrove got married again hisself soon after. I met him in the grocer’s the other day buying cheese…’

  Dora had a tendency to ramble and Rita cut her short. ‘Do you know Mrs Kennett? George’s mother I mean. I’ve never spoken to her in my life that I know of and yet she seemed to hate me on sight.’

  ‘Stuck up bitch!’ Dora said. ‘She always did think she was a cut above everybody else. Even at school. Her father kept a grocery store. It weren’t no more than the front room of their house, but she always had plenty of food and sweets and we didn’t have much of anything in our family. She’d bring sweets to school and hand them to her special favourites.’

  ‘And you didn’t get any.’ Rita laughed. ‘Oh, Mum, how can you bear a grudge for so long?’

  ‘I don’t bear her a grudge, my lovely. She’s the one with an axe to grind, not me.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘No. Best let sleeping dogs lie.’

  Two days later they learnt that Colin had been arrested for arson. Rita knew perfectly well that George Kennett was at the bottom of it but she could prove nothing and Colin, when she was allowed to see him, refused to confirm it. He wasn’t a grass, he said, but as his fingerprints had been found on an empty petrol can and that, together with the description of the man seen running away, was enough to convict him, he was going to plead guilty and rely on his brief to offer mitigating circumstances. ‘I’ll serve my time,’ he said, leaning towards the grille that divided them. ‘Then I’ll get even with Kennett. I gave his name as an alibi, said I was working late at the yard, but the bugger refused to confirm it. He’s not going to get away with it.’

  Because of his guilty plea the trial was a short one. Rita sat in the gallery and heard him sentenced to five years in prison. She caught his eye as he was escorted from the dock. He grinned at her and stuck his thumb up, a gesture which was reported by the Melsham Gazette as ‘defiant and unrepentant to the last’.

  Long after it had been to all the big cities, Home Close came to the tiny picture house in Melsham. George said he had no time to go and see it, but Barbara asked Elizabeth to sit with Alison so that she could go. Sitting in the stuffy, darkened cinema, she watched Penny bringing the character of Irene Littlechild to life. It was a comedy and the plot was convoluted, but among the laugh-out-loud antics of the characters, there was some real pathos.

  Irene’s husband, Ronald, was having an affair and Irene had, in the end, found out about it. She drove to work, trying to think of ways of getting her husband back. Even though there was no sound except that of the in-house pianist, tears could be seen streaming down her face. She was driving all over the road. The scene changed to a lorry coming in the opposite direction and Barbara sat forward in her seat, holding her breath. She could easily imagine the loud blasting of the lorry’s horn, the screeching brakes and the huge crash. The next scene was in the hospital and Ronald was rushing down the corridor to be with Irene. Their reconciliation left Barbara in tears. She stood up for the National anthem and then shuffled out with everyone else, sniffing and blowing her nose, glad George was not with her because he would have laughed at her.

  As soon as she arrived home, she checked with Elizabeth that Alison had been good, then went to the telephone and asked the operator for Penny’s number.

  ‘Pen, I’ve just been to see Home Close. You were wonderful.’

  Penny laughed. ‘Bit over played, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. You had the audience in tears.’

  ‘Thank you for those kind words, darling. On the strength of that performance I have been offered a really meaty part in a new film. I’m thrilled to bits. But enough about me. How are you? How’s Alison? I’m sorry I couldn’t get down for her birthday. Did she like the teddy bear?’

  ‘She loved
it, takes it to bed every night.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Expecting again.’

  ‘Congratulations. When’s it due?’

  ‘Next April. George is pleased.’

  ‘Of course he is. Who wouldn’t be?’ There was a slight pause, then she said, ‘Did you know Simon is getting married?’

  Simon. For a moment it seemed as if her heart had stopped and time had gone into reverse. She was back in a crowded room, squeezed on a sofa and he was saying I thought we had something going, something special. Why could she never forget that? Why could she never forget how it felt to be in his arms? She hated herself for it. If she had married him, would he have left her alone night after night, as George did? And those thoughts led to guilt. George was out so much because he cared for her, wanted the very best for his family. And though he rarely talked about the business, he did talk about his plans for them: the dream house he would build, with a large garden and a paddock for Jinny and a pony for Alison, a little bungalow for his mother so she didn’t have to climb stairs, a new car – two new cars. He would do it too, he was nothing if not determined. That was how he had won her in the first place. She should remember that more often.

  ‘Barbara, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I thought I heard Alison. You were telling me about Simon. Who’s the lucky girl?’

  ‘Dodo Marston. She played my sister in Home Close. You met her at my party.’

  ‘Did I?’ She didn’t remember anyone at that party, except Simon; she hadn’t been there long enough. But she remembered the character in Home Close. She was beautiful and could turn on the charm and the tears with equal ease. Was she like that in real life?

  ‘Yes. It was where Simon met her. You should have stuck around.’

  Barbara resisted the temptation to ask why. Penny knew she would not have left the party without a reason, and though she had never asked what it was, Barbara had a feeling she had guessed. She managed a light laugh. ‘Is her name really Dodo?’

  ‘No, it’s Dorothy, which doesn’t exactly convey glamour.’

  ‘Give him my congratulations, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Look after yourself and kiss Alison for me.’

  George came in as she was replacing the receiver. He put his briefcase down beside the hall table and dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Penny.’ She followed him into the sitting room where he poured himself a whisky and slumped into an armchair to drink it. ‘Had a bad day?’ she asked.

  ‘Bloody awful,’ he said irritably. ‘No one seems to know the meaning of a good day’s work for a good day’s pay anymore. A delivery of timber hasn’t arrived and it’s holding me up. Inflation has gone sky-high and I’m paying through the nose for all my supplies because the bank has put up interest rates again. Don’t you read the papers? No, of course you don’t, you’d rather sit in the dark and watch trash.’

  She did not respond, afraid that if she did wind him up into losing his temper, it would be an explosion so mighty that their whole world would fly to pieces. Alison, who adored her father, would suffer and so would her unborn child. Right on cue, he gave her a sharp kick. She smiled and put her hand on her belly, feeling him move. She didn’t know why, but she was sure she was going to have a son.

  Chapter Five

  Nicholas George was born at three o’clock on the morning of third of April 1923 at Melsham hospital. He was a lusty seven and a half pounds and George was delighted. He had a daughter he loved, but a son was special, a son could join him in business and make it ‘Kennett & Son’.

  On the day of the christening, George decided to photograph them all, grouped around Barbara and the baby, whom he positioned on the settee. Alison knelt beside Barbara, obeying her father’s instructions to hold the baby’s hand and smile at him. ‘Mum, you sit the other side of Barbara, I want the whole family in.’ He set the delay and raced round behind the settee and bent towards Barbara, smiling down at his son. The flash coincided with the ringing of the doorbell.

  ‘That’ll be Dad and Virginia,’ Barbara said, handing Nicholas to her mother-in-law so that she could let them in.

  She was shocked by her father’s appearance. The strapping man who loved to be out of doors working on the farm, who liked to ride and shoot and fish, could hardly walk from one chair to another without becoming breathless. He was patently ill, but he smiled and sat with his grandson on his lap, sipping a glass of champagne, assuring everyone he felt fine. Virginia took him home at seven and helped him to bed, then she crept downstairs to eat a lonely supper. When she went up to bed herself, he was already dead. He was smiling, as if he had been enjoying a private joke when he drifted off.

  Even though she had known her father was ill, Barbara could hardly take in the news when Virginia rang at seven the following morning. Her father had always been so strong and healthy, her bulwark. She didn’t want to believe it. George fetched his mother to baby sit and then drove her over to the farm, but there was nothing she could do except sit with Virginia in the kitchen drinking endless cups of tea. She had idolised her father. It was to her father she had gone to solve her childhood problems, and to some extent, those of her adulthood, those she felt able to confide. He had never failed to give her good advice. The only time their relationship had been strained was over his marriage to Virginia, but he had convinced her that it was right for him, and she had come round to accepting it. She was still not one hundred per cent sure of Virginia, but there was no doubt the widow was genuinely grief-stricken.

  ‘He loved you,’ Virginia said, after a long silence, when the only sound was the ticking of the old clock on the dresser. ‘He was always talking about the things you had done as a child, riding, playing the piano, school reports, your painting, that sort of thing. He was proud of you.’

  ‘I know. I wish I had been with him more at the end. I feel so guilty…’

  ‘Guilt is all part of grief, or so they tell me,’ Virginia said. ‘It must be, because I am riddled with it.’

  Barbara turned to her in surprise. ‘What have you to feel guilty about?’

  ‘I wasn’t with him at the end, I was down here, eating my supper.’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ George said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘You stayed with him until he went to sleep. He didn’t wake up, so his life ended then, you mustn’t feel guilty about that.’

  She looked up at him. ‘No, I suppose not. You are such a comfort, George.’

  ‘Do you want me to help with the funeral arrangements?’ he asked. ‘You shouldn’t have to cope alone.’

  ‘Oh George, would you? I’ve been dreading it, though he left instructions. He wanted to talk to me about them, but I wouldn’t listen. I stuck my head in the sand and told myself he would live for years and years. He wrote them down instead. They’re in his desk with his will. I haven’t opened it.’

  ‘Leave everything to me.’

  John Bosgrove’s funeral service was as dignified as his end. Besides the immediate family, aunts, uncles and cousins came from wherever they happened to be living, sombrely clad but not in deep mourning: he had not wanted that. From the town came representatives of the NFU, the golf club, the Rotarians and the church where he had worshipped all his life.

  Barbara, following the coffin down the aisle with George and Virginia beside her, was uplifted to see so many. Her father had been loved. Penny was there, elegant in a slate-grey jersey suit and black hat; and beside her Simon looking incredibly prosperous, with a glamorous Dodo at his side. Barbara’s step faltered at the sight of him, then she looked ahead towards the coffin and continued on her way with a firm tread. Tucked away in a back pew almost hidden by a column, she caught sight of Rita Younger and someone who could only have been her mother. She gave them a wry smile, glad that her mother-in-law had stayed behind to look after Alison and the baby.

  Afterwards the mourners returned to the farmhouse for tea and sandwiches, standing about chatting to
each other, sometimes even laughing, though not unkindly. They all had memories, nostalgic, bittersweet, happy, sad. Barbara endured as long as she could, then crept away to the stables and put her arms round Jinny’s neck and cried, hot, scalding, grief-laden tears she could not shed in company.

  ‘I saw you leave, thought I’d find you here.’

  Startled, she looked up to see Simon in the doorway. ‘I thought you might need a shoulder to cry on.’

  She turned and flung herself into his arms. He held her silently, feeling her misery through her shaking shoulders, sharing it. His was the best comfort she had known since her father’s passing: no words, no platitudes, no prattle about practicalities. With no one else there to see her, it was unadulterated, selfish grief. And after it came calm. The sobs eased and she looked up at him through a blur, smiling a little, her voice still watery. ‘I’ve ruined your jacket.’

  ‘It’ll clean.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently mopped up her tears, almost making them flow again. ‘Do you feel better now?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m sorry I’m such a drip. I can’t believe he’s gone. He meant so much to me.’

  He grinned ruefully over her head: it was her love for her father which had triggered her marriage to George and he knew, though she had never said a word to him, that it was a disaster, just as his own marriage was. There was no point in saying anything to her, it was all water under the bridge and water didn’t flow backwards. ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘Do you think you can you cope now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go in, then. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave soon. Dodo wants to get back to town. Work, you know.’ It wasn’t work; he did not want to stay and be tormented by the sight of Barbara whom he loved and might have had, but whom he had lost. He had been a mess when he came out of the army, unable to settle, not knowing what he wanted, trying to pretend that limbless bodies and sightless eyes were the price you paid for war and, if you had survived intact, then you should be glad, not eaten up by guilt. By the time he had come to some sort of shaky truce within himself, and decided it was useless blaming himself for the mistakes made by politicians and generals, it was too late, Barbara was married.